


what you do well, you should do to me

by pixiepower



Series: you know i’m one for the overly passionate [1]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Porn with Feelings, Rivals to Lovers, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, actors boogyu, established (married) gyuhao, like. big time on both halves of that tag. porn with feelings: the fic, truly excessive use of terms of endearment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiepower/pseuds/pixiepower
Summary: There’s a gentle presence to it that Mingyu likes, something added to their relationship, rather than elbowing its way in. He wants more of it, tries to finally admit to himself that he wants the glow of the person who put it there beside them, too.And he does. He wants Seungkwan here, with Minghao, with him.•It’s easy for Mingyu to be married to Minghao, to be in love with him. Not so easy to contend with Boo Seungkwan on set, not so easy to see Seungkwan look at his husband like that, not so easy to see Seungkwan look athimlike that. But hard work begets success.
Relationships: Boo Seungkwan/Kim Mingyu, Boo Seungkwan/Kim Mingyu/Xu Ming Hao | The8, Boo Seungkwan/Xu Ming Hao | The8, Kim Mingyu/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Series: you know i’m one for the overly passionate [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1830082
Comments: 22
Kudos: 218





	what you do well, you should do to me

**Author's Note:**

> title from “lasso” by phoenix.
> 
> whew. 
> 
> expanded upon [this tweet](https://twitter.com/eightpaint/status/1227817106168672263?s=21), as all my ideas often are
> 
> thank you, pey. from your mouth to my ears, your brain to my ao3 page. everything is always thanks to you.

“How was your day, love?”

Minghao is mouthing at the pulse point under his ear, and Mingyu is running his own mouth, eyes closed as he leans into the feeling, tilting his head to make space for his husband’s kisses. “God, would you believe that today Seungkwan asked to do our take over _three_ times after we were done because ‘Chunja should be walking faster than Wook in this scene, and I didn’t get my pacing right’? His literal pacing! Of his legs! _Mmm,”_ Mingyu says, shivering a little as Minghao nips at his earlobe.

“Did it turn out the way he hoped in the end?” asks Minghao. 

Minghao slides a hand up under Mingyu’s shirt to toy with a nipple, running his thumb over it just to feel Mingyu’s back arch a little. It’s casual and familiar and so _good,_ Mingyu feels a little flushed already. Mingyu’s eyes flutter shut and he grinds his hips up against nothing, lets Minghao unbutton his shirt to give himself full access to his chest. His long, graceful fingers roam over Mingyu’s skin, wandering aimlessly over his pectorals and belly just to touch. He’d be happy just to let Minghao do this forever, caress and graze until Mingyu melts into him inseparably.

From behind Mingyu, Minghao laughs, the sound echoing quietly in Mingyu’s gelatinizing brain as Minghao rakes his nails over the soft center of Mingyu’s stomach. He had… said something. Right? Or asked something?

“Eh?” Mingyu says vaguely, turning his head to give Minghao a dazed smile.

At Mingyu’s increasing lack of faculty Minghao laughs again, sweet and giggly, pressing a kiss to Mingyu’s temple. “I asked if Seungkwan was happy with his takes when you were done,” he repeats, face open and genuine, something playful at the corners.

Nodding, Mingyu opens his mouth to reply, “Yeah, I think s-so, so! _Minghao!”_ he whines indignantly, voice brokenly interrupted by Minghao’s fingers toying with both nipples at once, tugging sharply to wrench a breathy gasp from Mingyu. 

His husband’s hands are kind and merciless in equal measure, traversing Mingyu’s body without trepidation because they know the way, all the trails and shortcuts and scenic routes. Memorized each landmark and know now like second nature what to do there. Minghao’s chest is bare against the span of Mingyu’s back, all willowy muscle and sinew, and something in Mingyu likes that Minghao is calm against him, all gentle, enveloping weight with precise, incisive fingertips. A hallmark of their marriage, Minghao unwinding Mingyu’s tension and energy, unraveling him in his practiced hands.

It’s nice to have this, Minghao’s quiet playlist floating from his workroom down the hall, Mingyu swallowing back whimpers as Minghao works over his nipple with one hand and unzips his fly with the other. He pushes down what he can from this angle and starts to tease at Mingyu’s cock where it swells in his briefs. Minghao’s legs bracket Mingyu’s, and when Mingyu leans back to give Minghao more access, shivering at the feeling of lube being slicked against him, he sinks fingers into the lean meat of Minghao’s thighs, sky-blue silk sliding under his fingertips. The legs remind him.

“Are my legs even really that long? I was trying to keep my pace slow today, what a thing to focus on,” Mingyu mutters. His hips jump to meet Minghao’s hand. “I can’t imagine being so hypercritical of everything all the time.”

Mingyu’s mind is racing again, the wired way he feels all keyed-up at work bleeding now into the languid feeling of his husband’s embrace, and he squirms. Work has been more trying than usual lately, and he tries not to bring it home but it’s hard when he spends all day being someone else, bickering about line delivery and not even really having time to process all of it because he has to explain to Seungkwan each and every one of his character choices between takes when he’s just trying to make _Finding Us_ mean something.

“I mean, I want things to be better, too, and it’s probably the luxury of multiple takes getting to him s-since, _nnh,_ since he’s used to doing theatre where you don’t, _ah!,_ don’t get second chances, but…”

The hand around him tightens slightly, Minghao squeezing gently as he thumbs at the underside of the head, and Mingyu’s voice catches on the upstroke while he keeps complaining about work and stress and the pressure of limited representation.

Minghao is genuinely listening, though, which helps. He’s always as focused as one can possibly get, humming appropriately and snorting at a particularly ridiculous turn of phrase, even giggling at an impression of Seungkwan that Mingyu definitely _hasn’t_ been trying out on the drive home every day, no way.

Mingyu likes how Minghao’s attention always seems undivided even while he’s multitasking; it makes him feel seen and heard and cared for, like he’s always at the forefront of Minghao’s mind even while he’s busy. Especially when busy, in this case, means moving his hand faster over Mingyu’s dick and drawing out whimpers between complaints and mutters, making soothing little noises of agreement against Mingyu’s neck between openmouthed kisses.

“I put in a lot of work to make sure I’m showing a good side of myself, I just don’t know why it never seems to be good enough for him.” Mingyu pouts, head falling back against Minghao’s shoulder, eyes screwing shut as his thighs start to shake a little bit.

“Maybe it’s less about you and more that he wants to make a good impression himself. Like you said,” Minghao offers with a nip to Mingyu’s earlobe as punctuation and pause, “Seungkwan-ssi hasn’t worked on a drama before.”

“He doesn’t need to make things harder for either of us to do that, though!”

Mingyu’s breaths are coming faster now, a combination of Minghao’s teasing touch against his nipple, the singleminded way he’s being jerked off, and the frustration of the day’s difficulty all tensing in his stomach and lungs and chest. Mingyu feels like he’s a kettle just before boiling, a whirring motor struggling to keep up with demand, and creeps ever-closer to overload.

But his husband, bless him, turns Mingyu’s face with a gentle hand on his jaw to kiss him, their noses brushing. Mingyu can tell, suddenly, that Minghao is turned on, too, and that‘s his quick undoing.

For a single blissful moment, Mingyu’s mind goes blank, hard drive resetting as he tips over the edge, hips kicking into Minghao’s hand, spilling into his loose fist. As Mingyu catches his breath, Minghao leans over and wipes off his hand with a satisfied little giggle, something fond that makes Mingyu feel like he did well at _something_ today, at least.

Panting, he turns over, pushing the rest of his clothes off and taking Minghao’s with them as he climbs over Minghao’s body to kiss him, eager and grateful. Minghao is laughing up at him, and Mingyu’s heart is full as he takes Minghao in hand and lets himself be kissed through the way Minghao squirms up into his touch. 

Minghao kisses like he tells Mingyu how he feels, like it bubbles out of him, messy and unhoned like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing, like it’s the only thing he lets himself have freely when he keeps his body and mind in check. Always so thoughtful and controlled, even when fueled entirely by hunger and desire.

He also does it to keep Mingyu from getting too in his own head; between smiley kisses, between slicking Minghao’s cock up to make the slide of his hand easier on him, Mingyu feels the weight of work slide back onto his shoulders, and the slide of Minghao’s lips against his, punctuated with periodic sharp inhales, only does so much to shake it loose.

“Hey,” Minghao whispers, the end of it breathy when Mingyu thumbs over his slit, smearing wetness as he goes. “What are you thinking about?”

Mingyu groans. “Work, I’m sorry.” He hates when his mind wanders like this, thoughts careening around corners like a funfair ride, dragging him along with them. Guilt settles into his chest, and he lets go of Minghao’s cock, his hand sliding up Minghao’s hip to rest at his waist.

“Tough day, I know.” Minghao reaches again for the lube and drips it over just his fingers. The sight prickles at the small of Mingyu’s back, something in him stirring again. “You wanna tell me more about it?”

Minghao’s hands reach down between them. One spreads him open and the fingertips of the other brush wetly at Mingyu’s hole.

“You mean—” Mingyu gasps, and Minghao giggles. 

“Yes, I mean while I open you up for me.”

And he presses a finger inside, Mingyu’s thighs between Minghao’s wobbling a little with how good it feels. _“Minghao,”_ Mingyu whines.

Minghao’s finger works slowly, familiar and practiced and perfect, crooking up just right. Before long, Mingyu is panting again, knees buckling and making Minghao smile into their kisses.

“I’m going to make you come like this while you tell me everything that happened today, and then I’m going to fuck you so good you forget it. Can start fresh tomorrow,” Minghao murmurs, and Mingyu shivers. 

All of Minghao’s promises, he keeps.

So while Mingyu says, “I accidentally gave Jiwoo my coffee and left hers on the counter, and by the time I went back to get it for her it had been thrown out,” Minghao’s finger picks up a rhythm, and Mingyu cants his hips back with a choked noise.

“I must have torn out a page in my script because I went to review my lines and the whole page was—was missing,” and another finger, curling up to press against Mingyu’s prostate. His whole body shakes and he presses down toward Minghao, collapsing against him while his hand moves.

“And in my scene with Seungkwan I was having trouble taking Wonwoo’s notes and Tzuyu’s direction and kept misstepping. At one, _one—one point!_ I cheated toward the wrong camera and they had to s-s… _oh, God,_ set up the shot again and Seungkwan—fuck, fuck, _Seungkwan, mmnh, Minghao!_ Seungkwan gave me this look like I was the rookie, just _evaluating_ me and it made me feel, feel—I felt, _felt,_ Seungkwan just, Minghao, I’m going to—”

His voice pitches high and needy, and like a rubber band Mingyu’s whole body tightens and snaps. He grabs for Minghao’s wrist to keep his fingers pressed inside while he jerks through it, whimpers buried against Minghao’s neck, mind glitching between _derided under Seungkwan’s gaze_ and _Minghao’s gorgeous hands_ and _oh, yes._

“So good, Minggoo-yah, so good.” Minghao’s soothing voice muffles when he presses kisses to Mingyu’s temple, and it’s tight with arousal. The praise melts through him like fuel, and despite his sensitivity Mingyu wants to cash in on Minghao’s word. It doesn’t seem like it’ll take Minghao long, anyway, especially not if Mingyu has anything to say about it.

Mingyu wriggles his hips so Minghao pulls his hand out, lying on his back and reaching for Minghao’s thigh. “I believe someone promised to fuck my brains out?”

Minghao laughs, maneuvering into position, flexing his hand to stretch it out. His long, pretty fingers are sticky with lube and his wrist is striped with Mingyu’s come. “Came twice and still have that mouth on you,” he mutters fondly.

“Let’s try for three, see how that goes.” 

Mingyu grins, eyelids dropped, and takes it with relish as Minghao rolls his eyes but kisses him deep and slow while he slides into him. They both groan, Minghao’s fingers finding their way into Mingyu’s hair at the crown of his head, pace familiar and rhythmic.

“Feels good?” Mingyu asks against Minghao’s mouth, each kiss breathier than the last.

Minghao makes a noise of assent as they rock together, and Minghao breaks away to breathe into his ear, his rough, high pants going straight through Mingyu. He never gets tired of this, of Minghao murmuring love into his ear, of letting himself fall into him and burying himself alive with his husband’s hands as shovels.

“I love you,” Minghao moans, hands tightening in Mingyu’s hair.

Mingyu knows this started because he had a bad day, because he can’t hide how he feels, wears his heart on his sleeve — it’s what gets him into trouble at work. too, lets Wonwoo and Jiwoo and the makeup team and, yeah, Seungkwan, know where his mind is at all times. Knows Minghao will talk anything out with him he wants to discuss, and knows, too, that sometimes Mingyu just needs a clean slate. Minghao, too, when a sample doesn’t come out the way he wanted or a sewist damages a machine, or his idea well has run dry. Things that feeling close in this way, unraveling together, can soothe for the both of them. 

But.

There’s something about knowing that sometimes his husband just wants to raw him to high heaven, too, and that that desire comes from a place of pure selfishness and greed and love, that coaxes Mingyu closer to coming.

Minghao’s hips push into Mingyu faster the more noise he makes, and Mingyu can’t help but gasp and moan and cling to Minghao, one hand tight on the nape of his neck to keep him close, the other fisted in the sheets. “I love you, jagi _ya, Hao,_ I’m _gonna come,”_ Mingyu babbles, feeling his toes curl with a telltale tingle. It must say something that even when Mingyu’s mind goes blank, when white-heat threatens to overtake him, he can taste his husband’s name in his mouth, wants to keep it there, sweet and soothing.

“Wait for me, love,” Minghao manages tightly, and Mingyu surges up to kiss him, more of a messy, openmouthed pant than a true kiss, and feels Minghao grind in deep before his hips stutter and his knees squeeze around Mingyu’s thighs, keeping him close as he shakes through it.

Somewhere between when Minghao stops moving inside him and Mingyu’s third orgasm, wrung out dry and sensitive some shuddering, whimpering moments later, Mingyu thinks, _This is what love feels like._

Minghao, breathing hard, rolls over and rests a hand on Mingyu’s face, fond and lazy, using two delicate fingertips to push his come back inside Mingyu, just because. Mingyu shudders deliciously at the feeling, leaning into his touch, kissing the pad of Minghao’s thumb. 

Call him a sentimental fool, but this is his favorite part.

“Wait, which hand is this,” Mingyu mumbles, and Minghao snorts, eyes still shut. He gives himself a minute to catch his breath, to feel Minghao’s broad hand span his cheek, to evaluate whether or not he actually has his own come pressed to his face, and then pushes himself up to pad to the bathroom.

“Thank you,” Minghao calls from their bed, sleepy and sated, and it makes Mingyu smile.

He lets the water warm up before he cleans himself off and cleans himself out, but the ambient air is cold, so he shuffles back with the warm washcloth and wipes at Minghao’s tummy and thighs, pressing a kiss to his hip as he does.

“Yah,” Minghao admonishes, blushing prettily now that the heat of the moment is over. He gets shy like this sometimes when attention is turned on him, as powerful and commanding as he can be, as in control as he is. It’s sweet. And Mingyu is more than happy to spoil his husband.

“Oh, please.” Mingyu folds the washcloth and sets it on his bedside, curling up beside Minghao. “God, I’m going to feel this tomorrow.”

Minghao laughs quietly, then puts on a fake-affronted pout. “You aren’t feeling it now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Good,” Minghao smiles, and tugs Mingyu close. “Feeling better, then?”

Shrugging, Mingyu nods. He does, actually. Makes him feel a lot more ready to take on the possibilities. “Hopefully Seungkwan will go easy on me tomorrow.”

At that, Minghao seems amused, for whatever reason, and brushes Mingyu’s hair off his face to press another kiss to his temple, to his forehead, his nose, his lips. There’s something curious in his gaze, like he’s reaching into Mingyu’s mind, panning for gold. 

Minghao says sometimes that Mingyu is like the beach, the lapping of the waves loud as they crash, the hot sun glinting off seashells, shorebirds shrieking overhead. For all intents and purposes too much stimuli, every sense overwhelmed. But every anniversary Minghao asks to go to the beach, and Mingyu watches his husband roll up his pants to the thigh and stand in the thick of the tide, face tilted up toward the sun.

So Mingyu kisses him back, and hopes he finds whatever it is he’s looking for.  
  


•

Today is better!

Mingyu started the day with affirmations in the mirror, and affirmations into his coffee, and affirmations in his ready-trailer, and, consequently, has felt very affirmed all day. 

Filming with Jiwoo is fun, her expressive face and undeniable talent doing wonders at bringing life and spontaneity and energy to Seolhee in every scene, engrossing Mingyu in their story. 

_Finding Us_ is something modern, something true, even if Wook is outwardly different than Mingyu, aloof and protective and full of dry humor. He was drawn to the character because of his soft side, the secret passion and his fumbling inability to determine his feelings for either of his love interests, in direct opposition to Seungkwan’s character Chunja, who is charismatic and popular, but too confident in his pursuit of ambition. None of them are exactly playing against type, but there’s dimension they add, and this series is better for all of them working together.

Mingyu is proud to be here, doing this. Making something that will bring people joy. Telling stories about love and friendship and doing right by one another even when it’s hard. Not everyone is so lucky.

He sweeps Jiwoo into a hug when Tzuyu calls cut, their last take for the day practically perfect.

“Oh! I didn’t know oppa was going to be visiting set today!” 

At Jiwoo’s excitement, Mingyu turns, setting Jiwoo down on her little fairy feet in her costume boots, and oh _no._

Seungkwan is talking to Minghao, meters away where Mingyu can’t reach them with any sort of ease or speed, and Minghao is _giggling,_ ears stained pink with flattery, and Boo Seungkwan looks far too pleased with himself for this to mean anything good.

All Mingyu can do is watch warily as Seungkwan gestures to himself, one foot crossed over the other, then reaches up and traces a finger over Minghao’s chest pocket, thumb running over the piping ever so slowly. He’s dripping with confidence, this look in his eyes earnest and hopeful. Something unfamiliar swoops through Mingyu when Minghao leans in close to murmur into Seungkwan’s ear, and Seungkwan throws his head back with laughter, cheeks appling as his face lights up.

“Me neither, Jiwoo-yah,” Mingyu says absently, eyes still following Seungkwan’s foot as it runs up and down Seungkwan’s other leg. He’s practically shining the top of his shoe on his calf in his slim-cut jeans. Why is Seungkwan in jeans and a loose t-shirt, anyway? Was he even on the call sheet for today?

Minghao is in a suit, probably come straight from the buyer’s meeting he had today, and he looks… so good, tall and slim in textured grey, the Gucci sneakers Mingyu bought him for his last birthday in third position. Mingyu can’t exactly _blame_ Seungkwan for flirting with his husband when he looks like that in the middle of the day. Minghao is so handsome. Handsome men will always flirt with him. It just follows, logically.

But Seungkwan and Minghao laugh together again, and, well, okay. Mingyu needs to get over there right now.

Jiwoo coughs in the back of her throat, and when Mingyu turns back to her, deer in headlights, she gives him a sweet grin, eyes glittering. “Oh, go on, oppa, I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you now.”

Mingyu shoots her a grateful smile. Jiwoo may look fresh-faced, but she’s not nearly as naïve as people think. He squeezes her hand, and she shoos him away, making her way over to Tzuyu and Wonwoo instead.

“Minghao,” Mingyu says, forgoing calling out just to get his arm around Minghao’s waist first. “I didn’t know you were on set today, Seungkwan,” he adds.

“Hi,” Seungkwan replies in greeting, bright-eyed. “I came by to run lines with Nagyung when I ran into hyung. Not that you took the time to introduce us.”

“You seemed to get along just fine on your own, Seungkwan-ah.” One of Seungkwan’s hands is at his own waist, which looks positively tiny where the cotton of his white shirt is tucked in. “What are you posing for?” Mingyu asks. Seungkwan shoots him a dirty look, which Mingyu thinks is a little uncalled for.

Minghao laughs, though, and at the sound Seungkwan’s face softens, though he looks away politely when Minghao drops a quick hello kiss on Mingyu’s lips.

“I wanted to see if you wanted to go for dinner,” Minghao says. “How did shooting go?”

“Oh, Mingyu-hyung was great,” says Seungkwan, and Mingyu feels his features arrange themselves into eye-narrowed suspicion, even as his ears burn with what he knows is pinkness at the praise. “You understand we can’t say much, but I’m really excited about what we did today.”

He means Wook confessing to Seolhee that he dislikes Chunja’s singleminded pursuit of Jinah (played to perfect effect by Nagyung), laying the foundation for the possibility that Wook could end up with either Chunja or Seolhee. Which it will be, they haven’t revealed to the cast yet. It hasn’t been done before, and Tzuyu and Wonwoo worked hard to get the script approved, and it’s _exciting,_ so Mingyu smiles.

“Me too,” he agrees. Feeling generous, he adds, “Seungkwan did well today, too.”

“I’m sure he did,” Minghao says, eyes crinkling in a smile.

Seungkwan preens, and Mingyu knows immediately that he made a mistake. “Ah, hyung, thank you.” He smiles, slow and sure, up at Minghao, eyes bright through his eyelashes. 

Minghao looks flustered, which — that’s different. It’s pretty, the peek of rosy ears above his sleek grey lines, but Mingyu’s curious about something.

As Minghao rummages in his bag for goodness knows what, Mingyu looks with reservation at Seungkwan, who is looking at Minghao, something thoughtful on his face. When he looks at Mingyu, though, it steels, a smirk and playful eyes greeting him.

Mingyu doesn’t know what to think. Or feel, for that matter. There’s a messy swirl of stress and something else in the pit of his stomach, something vaguely competitive. More than anything Mingyu wants to show Seungkwan up, wants to prove himself. He—he doesn’t _have_ to. He doesn’t. But—

Seungkwan looks Mingyu up and down pointedly, and Mingyu looks right back. Confidence drips off him, hip cocked in those jeans, and Mingyu looks, because Seungkwan wants him to. Meeting eyes, accepting the challenge he’s setting. Whatever it is.

Minghao makes a triumphant little noise under his breath, and Mingyu and Seungkwan both startle. “Got it!” He brandishes a small metal container, etched cleanly with his brand logo, and pulls out a business card, which he scribbles on and hands to Seungkwan. “We can go for dinner all together another time! Just message me, Seungkwan-ah!”

A chill goes down Mingyu’s spine at the way Seungkwan bites his lip, settling at the small of his back when Seungkwan demurs, “Thank you, hyung, I’d love to.”

Mingyu opens his mouth to say something else, but Minghao’s hand slides into the back pocket of Mingyu’s pants, and suddenly Mingyu feels perfectly content to say nothing at all. In his periphery he sees Minghao’s smile widen just a fraction, and warmth tingles through his body, anticipation like a call from his agent, like the morning before a big scene.

“Have a good night,” Minghao says, clasping Seungkwan’s hand in his.

Seungkwan beams, a smile like sunshine. Mingyu wants to be careful not to get burned. “Good night, hyungs,” Seungkwan replies.

Mingyu tries not to watch him go when he walks away.

Over dinner at the restaurant, Minghao says casually, “That was funny.”

“What was?”

“Mm.” Minghao chews and swallows, lying his chopsticks down and looking Mingyu in the eye. “Seungkwan flirting like that with us.”

Surprised, Mingyu lets out a shocked laugh. “He was flirting with _you,_ certainly. The rest of it… That’s just how he acts on set, all righteous and better-than, and it’s only half-earned. He’s an amazing actor, of course, all that charisma, but working with him is so much _trouble,_ you know? High maintenance. You saw the way he was, it’s like it would kill him to give a sincere compliment.”

Minghao says nothing, picking up his chopsticks again and taking another bite, which says everything.

“What?” Mingyu asks warily, his own hand hovering over his bowl.

“You just, you get like this sometimes,” Minghao laughs, “It hasn’t happened in a while, but it’s cute to watch.”

Mingyu flushes. He’s sure he doesn’t know what his husband means. These are perfectly normal work gripes. 

But Minghao has such a clever way of cracking him open, sliding his fingers along his openings like an oyster knife, letting light pour in until he’s ready to give everything up. He’s always so ready to give everything up for Minghao. Minghao sees him whole, all the messy grit and meat and sand, and still treats him like a pearl. It’s impossible to keep yourself from washing up on the shore of someone like that. Not for Mingyu.

“I just want you to know, Minggoo-yah,” Minghao says evenly, eyes glittering with a romantic sort of mischief, “that anything you want to do here… I’m in it with you.”

Well. How can Mingyu not put himself on the plate?  
  


•

Maybe Seungkwan has a point with the annotation, Mingyu admits to himself, taking a highlighter to his script, scribbling notes to himself in the margins. _breathe slow here. / not so confident / CRY?_

Beside him in bed, Minghao has his cell phone in hand, legs out straight in front of him, ankles crossed under the blankets. Every few minutes he lets out a quiet sound, something sweet, and out of the corner of Mingyu’s eye he sees him smile. He types something, fingers dexterous on the screen, then another bubble pops up, and he giggles. The sound makes Mingyu smile.

“Mm?” Mingyu asks, _what is it?_

Minghao lifts his arm, and Mingyu fits himself into the wing of it, curled against Minghao’s chest. The motion knocks Mingyu’s glasses askew, and he wiggles to reposition them. “Messaging Seungkwan.”

Mingyu looks up at him, nudging his glasses up his nose with his highlighter hand. “Really?”

He guesses he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is. Everything has been far too quiet, from Seungkwan’s end of things, and if this is what he decides to do for his next move, Mingyu can’t be upset. Because he meets Minghao’s eyes, and Minghao _blushes,_ hand cradling his cell phone like the time they went to the animal shelter and Minghao held a kitten. Knowing Boo Seungkwan is on the other end, knowing he’s making Minghao feel special and making him giggle and blush, all the while doing the absolute most to rile Mingyu up? 

Maybe there’s a word to describe the feeling in Mingyu’s gut, all warm and tingly and alert, but Mingyu doesn’t know what it is.

“I want to say hello,” Mingyu says, and he paints it cute, aegyo-sweet.

Minghao sees through it, as Mingyu knew he would, but indulges him anyway, as Mingyu knew he would. 

He swipes to the camera application, and lets Mingyu fuss with his hair for a minute, fond eyes smiling in the mirror of the front-facing camera. Tucked under Minghao’s arm, Mingyu pouts, all brow-rim glasses and bare face, handsome as he knows he is, and Minghao in his nice cotton tank just looks— 

Minghao presses the button again as Mingyu surges up to kiss him, but he sends the first one instead.

_[image.jpg]_

**seungkwan:** _ah myungho-hyung, you look so handsome. sleepwear could be the focus of your next collection…_

Mingyu huffs, shaking out his script with a rustling of paper, uncapping his pen again with his mouth to scratch out one of Chunja’s lines, on principle.

It’s stupid, because it’s exactly what Seungkwan wants, to agitate him at work and flirt with his husband and get under his skin, and it’s stupid because it’s fucking working and Mingyu wants to _do_ something about it, but every time he thinks about it flame consumes him and he doesn’t know what to do. Talking with Minghao about it helped set boundaries, which is good, but everything outside of that is just. Static electricity.

Absentmindedly, Minghao reaches over and runs a hand over Mingyu’s thigh, broad hand rubbing soothing circles with his thumb. It’s nice, grounding, placating, but—

“No, you know what? Hang on,” Mingyu grumbles under his breath, grabbing his own cell phone off the nightstand and calling Seungkwan himself.

“Hyung.” Seungkwan’s voice is a low hum, like he was expecting Mingyu to call. Minghao raises an eyebrow, close enough that he can hear without speaker, and sets his own phone down to pay attention.

An itch comes over Mingyu, and he pouts. “You forgot something. I saw your message to Minghao. You forgot to say something.”

“Hmm. I don’t think so.” There’s a long pause, so long Mingyu almost thinks he hung up, until Seungkwan says, “Well? Aren’t you going to tell me what it is you think I’ve forgotten?”

He can almost hear the cock of the gun through the line. Despite the way his mind is screaming not to, Mingyu pulls the trigger himself. He mutters, almost through grit teeth, “Don’t I look handsome too, Seungkwan?”

Minghao tilts his head back, then, closing his eyes and resting his head on the headboard. There’s a serene look on his face, but the corners of his mouth wobble like he’s trying not to laugh. Mingyu knows this look; it means he’s making a fool of himself, and Minghao is endeared, which is normally consolation, makes him feel soft despite the heat prickling up his chest and face, but this…

“Hyung, fishing for compliments is unattractive,” Seungkwan’s voice crackles, and it sounds like he’s suppressing laughter, too.

“The disrespect!” Mingyu honks, affronted.

Minghao and Seungkwan burst out laughing, then, and Mingyu flops back onto the pillow, feeling red-hot with embarrassment. Minghao’s leaned forward with giggles, nose scrunched cutely, and he fists at Mingyu’s t-shirt to pull him closer. “Ah, bǎobèi,” he coos, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and Mingyu groans.

“Ah, hyung,” Seungkwan echoes, his tone just as sweet as Minghao’s, the usual sarcasm dropped for just a moment. And when he says, “You know you’re handsome, Minggoo-hyung, what do you need me to say it for? You want me to tell you how pretty you are? Because I will,” it’s low, like it’s a secret. Like it’s dangerous. 

It’s not teasing, not condescending. It feels — different, and the flush threatening to creep up Mingyu’s face takes over fully. “Now, how hard was that?” he says, more of a whisper.

Minghao’s face tucks itself into the crook of Mingyu’s neck, and one of his hands finds a home against Mingyu’s hip, dipped comfortably just under his waistband.

“You stop, or you’ll spoil him,” Minghao teases gently, just loud enough so it carries into the receiver, addressing Seungkwan.

Seungkwan laughs again, and it’s more natural, easier. Sweet and open, the way he always is with Minghao. “Ah, well, we don’t want to spoil Minggoo-hyung, do we?”

Minghao takes the phone out of Mingyu’s hand, pulling it closer to talk to Seungkwan on his own, and Mingyu thinks that maybe he wouldn’t mind it so badly if they did.  
  


•

Unfortunately, now that the gauntlet has been thrown, things escalate very quickly.

“Are you sure, love?”

“Oh, like it’s some big sacrifice to see you in the middle of my workday,” Mingyu says with a soft smile, dropping to his knees.

Minghao laughs, gentle and fond, as Mingyu runs his hands up and down Minghao’s thighs. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Shrugging, Mingyu says, “I know. But I always love your ideas, and this _has_ been on my bucket list for some time…” He trails off with a bite to his lip, looking up at Minghao, who towers long and lean over him like the tail of a comet. Even from way down here he can still see Minghao is already getting a little flushed just from Mingyu teasing his hands over his inseam, a quick shiver running through his thighs, and Mingyu licks his lips.

Even if Seungkwan doesn’t show, this won’t have been a waste, Mingyu thinks, unzipping Minghao’s trousers and tugging them down to mouth at his dick in his briefs. At the warm wet press of Mingyu’s open mouth over the sleek fabric Minghao lets out a hard exhale, hissing through his teeth, closing his eyes, and knocking his head back against the thin wall of Mingyu’s trailer. Minghao is always so good at being quiet.

Mingyu isn’t. 

And that’s why this is going to work so well.

“What—what did you tell Seungkwan?” Minghao asks, head still tipped back, pushing his hips toward the wall so he doesn’t rut up into Mingyu’s mouth. Mingyu tries not to pout about it.

Hooking his fingers into Minghao’s briefs and pulling them down to pool over his pants on the floor, Mingyu kisses sweetly up the length of Minghao’s cock, pressing one to the crown before replying, “I switched our scripts after the last take. Would you believe it’s color-coded with sticky notes? His copy is so annotated, I knew he wouldn’t be able to go very long without realizing it was missing.”

“That’s — _fuck, Mingyu, mmh_ — that’s a great idea, love,” Minghao manages as Mingyu works his mouth over him, sinking down as far as he can and swallowing around him the way Mingyu knows gets his legs shaking. 

Mingyu has considered more than once buying kneepads for non-athletic purposes, but he kind of likes the bruisy ache in the spot just under his kneecaps whenever he does this. Whatever the circumstance, Mingyu always relishes the way he can feel Minghao filling out in his mouth, never gets tired of the soft skin moving over his tongue and running the pad of his thumb softly over his husband’s balls just to feel Minghao’s hand fly into the hairsprayed mess of his hair.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” Minghao says, suddenly lucid and a little panicked, trying to smooth down the area at the crown of Mingyu’s head where his fingers tugged free several camera-ready locks. “Chaeyoung is going to kill me for ruining your hair between takes.”

Pulling off and watching with satisfaction as Minghao’s fully hard dick shines a little with his spit, Mingyu sits back on his heels and lets Minghao pet him, closing his eyes and focusing on the long, beautiful fingers combing through his hair. He tries not to grin too proudly at the way Minghao’s big hand is trembling a little against his scalp, but hums anyway when he scratches at the nape of his neck.

“Hey, focus, darling,” Minghao laughs warmly. 

He’s kidding, rarely impatient during sex, unlike the Mingyu, who is prone to whining and begging and other such antics, but Mingyu does appreciate his dedication to a plan. Focus is one of his favorite qualities in his husband.

Mingyu blinks languidly and reaches down to palm at himself in his joggers, and, yes, he is definitely getting hard, and, yes, he is very much still on board with Minghao’s idea despite Minghao sort of wanting Mingyu to take the credit. He is so generous.

“Where do you want to fuck me?” Mingyu asks, closing one eye and looking critically at the trailer door. He holds his index finger and thumb out like lining up a shot, framing different angles of the weird little room with his hand. “I want to be able to look at him when he comes in and for you to be able to pretend you don’t know he’s there.”

To his merit, Minghao seriously analyzes the trailer, too, wrapping a hand around himself and stroking a few times at Mingyu’s eye level to keep himself hard. Mingyu leans forward and presses a kiss to the inside of Minghao’s thigh next to where Minghao’s fingers curl in, just because. Minghao giggles at the feeling, and Mingyu leans his head against Minghao’s leg, gazing adoringly up at him.

It’s nice to be able to do this together. Sure, Minghao is possessive sometimes, but he’s not immune to attraction, either, which usually works out in their favor.

“I think you need to ride me, then,” Minghao settles on, running a gentle thumb over Mingyu’s cheekbone. 

“Mmm,” Mingyu hums delightedly before he can help it, and Minghao blushes, which makes Mingyu’s smile widen.

“It has been a while since we fucked on the floor,” Minghao muses.

Mingyu laughs, pushing off his bottoms and coating his fingers in his Dressing Room Lube (label courtesy of Jun, who took it upon himself to take a labelmaker where no labelmaker has gone before. Sometimes your interior designer friends have… unique visions). After arranging the sofa pillows in a little nest, Minghao settles himself onto the floor next to Mingyu while he preps, watching with heavy eyelids as Mingyu rocks himself back on his fingers, the slick sound of it echoing wetly. 

Mingyu’s phone buzzes in the pocket of his discarded joggers, and Minghao rifles through the thick fabric to read it out. “Seungkwan is asking if you have his script.” Bingo.

“I’m a little…” Mingyu says tightly, waggling his fingers from force of habit to say _see, occupied,_ and squeezing his thighs together as he accidentally brushes his prostate. The look on Minghao’s face when Mingyu gasps at the feeling is so endeared, Mingyu almost feels shy. “Say, ‘yeah, oops,’ with five exclamation points, ‘drop by and grab it, just come in, the door’s unlocked.’”

Minghao snorts but adds the requisite punctuation, if the purposeful tap of his thumb is any indication. He rests Mingyu’s phone gently on top of the pile of clothes, reaching into his own pants pocket for the condom he brought.

“Hey,” Mingyu says, pulling his fingers out of himself to crawl over Minghao, non-lube-y hand pressed next to his head on the rug.

“Mm?” Minghao leans up to brush his nose against Mingyu’s, raising a curious eyebrow.

It’s cute, and Mingyu’s heart flutters about it, even after all this time. He leans down and kisses Minghao, deep and sweet, then kicks back onto his heels, taking the condom in hand and checking the date. “Thank you. For this. And for loving me,” Mingyu says, because it’s nice to remind Minghao, but also to remind himself, too. 

He _knows_ his husband loves him, knows it when Minghao arranges fabric scraps and zippers on his worktable into _M & M _ in a heart and texts the picture to him in the middle of the day, knows it when he plays with Mingyu’s hair when they watch a movie Minghao doesn’t know anything about, knows it when Mingyu tears open and rolls on the condom, slicking Minghao up, and Minghao takes a deep, shuddering breath, punctuated with an eager smile.

“God, Mingyu,” he moans quietly when Mingyu teases at his rim with the head of Minghao’s cock. 

The _almost_ of it is so good, Mingyu wonders if he could come like this, just by teasing, just grinding back against Minghao, let Minghao paint a claim over him without ever slipping inside. Next time, maybe. When they have more time. For now, Minghao’s stifled little moan punches out into a gasp when Mingyu finally sinks down onto him, bracing himself with one hand on Minghao’s flat stomach and the other on his pale thigh.

“Fuck,” Mingyu breathes back, giggling as he starts to pick up the pace, rocking down and picking up again, slowly at first, then faster, eyeing the door. The anticipation just serves to work him up more, and his whole body feels like it’s tingling with each passing minute.

Minghao’s face is angelic, his hair sticking to the edges with sweat serving to frame him like an old painting of a demigod. To Mingyu, he is. Especially times like now, when he wraps his beautiful hands around Mingyu’s waist, rucking up Mingyu’s t-shirt to feel his tummy and chest, his wandering hands settling on Mingyu’s hips, gripping tight just to piston his own hips up into Mingyu harder. It’s so _good,_ fuck, Mingyu forgets everything and just lets himself be manhandled by his husband, the driving way he’s fucking up into Mingyu pushing him close already. He tosses his head back, eyes closed as he rides with determination, angling himself so Minghao presses up against his prostate, letting out an, _“Oh,_ right there!”

They must be such a sight, fucking half-clothed like desperate teenagers, messy and debauched on the floor of Mingyu’s trailer, and just the thought of it coaxes tiny little panted whines out of Mingyu, over and over, rhythmic as he bounces on Minghao’s cock.

It feels so good, he almost forgets to open his eyes when the door creaks open.

“Haohao, yes, _yes,”_ Mingyu moans genuinely, grinding back down on Minghao with purpose. 

Biting at his lip, he manages to snap his eyes open to meet Seungkwan’s where he’s frozen in the doorway, his face rapidly turning a gorgeous shade, somewhere between held-breath-maroon and murder-blue. Maybe Minghao can use it for his next collection.

Suddenly, under Seungkwan’s gaze like daggers, Mingyu’s thighs shake from all the effort, and he knows Minghao can tell by the way Mingyu’s stomach tenses that he needs to take over in earnest. In an instant he’s using his hands to guide Mingyu back and forth, rocking him in tiny little circles to grind his cock deep into him.

And all the while, Mingyu holds eye contact with Seungkwan as he whines wantonly. Seungkwan’s cheeks are glowing brighter than camera makeup and his fists are clenched, white-knuckled, at his sides. But he doesn’t leave, the bright, cutting look in his eyes as much a challenge for Mingyu as one he’s clearly setting for himself. Neither of them blink, Seungkwan’s eyes narrowing but locked on Mingyu’s face as his mouth drops open with a particularly rough thrust.

Seungkwan’s shoulders look kind of tense. That’s a shame. Mingyu hears a good fuck can relieve that type of stress.

Mingyu’s eyelids drop a little and he tries to give Seungkwan a wry smile, or a smirk, but the upturned corners of his mouth make way for an honest, shaking, _loud,_ “Oh, _fuck!”_ when Minghao rubs the palm of one hand over the wet head of Mingyu’s dick, the way he does when he wants Mingyu to come fast so he can take him apart again and again.

“You close, baby?” Minghao asks, a little louder than his usual private whisper, louder than the way he usually breathes it in heavy pants against Mingyu’s earlobe. 

Mingyu knows he’s putting it on. He also knows Seungkwan won’t know that. But Mingyu is still _affected_ when Minghao’s voice goes all low and sweet like this. It’s still real, still theirs, even if it is partially for the benefit of someone else.

Minghao’s hand speeds up on him. “You going to come for me?”

Mingyu whines endless affirmations, yeses and pleases and Minghao’s name, pitched up and up and up as he comes, eyes rolling back, unable to control the purposely fuck-dumb look on his face anymore in favor of real fuck-dumbness. He shudders, Minghao’s big hands keeping Mingyu on full display for Seungkwan while his knees twitch and the hem of his rucked-up shirt is streaked with white. His head is thrown back with a full-body, trembling orgasm, Mingyu panting hard as he’s fucked deep through it by his gorgeous, perfect husband in front of his gorgeous, stupid costar.

The noise Mingyu makes when Minghao comes inside him is practically pornographic. He is probably a little too disappointed to find that, by the time he pulls off Minghao, Seungkwan has already thrown Mingyu’s script at the wall, snatched his own script off the counter, and slammed the door shut behind him with rattling, tornado-like force.

As soon as he can take one good deep breath, Minghao laughs at the look on Mingyu’s face, and leans forward to kiss at his pout. 

“Aw, Mingyu,” he murmurs gently against the corner of his mouth. 

Mingyu beams at Minghao, throwing his arms around his neck to kiss him all over his face, freckling his skin with appreciation and adoration. “Now what?” he says, and it sounds a little rough. He’s going to definitely need tea with honey and lemon to smooth that out.

Minghao looks like he wants to run a hand through his hair, but thinks better of it, shaking his hair off his forehead handsfree. “Now we clean up, and we go back to work,” he says, but there’s insinuation underlying.

“What?” Mingyu asks, standing up and stretching out his legs. Jesus, even big-budget trainers and daily conditioning hasn’t helped his knees withstand activity like this. “Out of dick-riding practice,” he grumbles.

An aborted laugh. “Firstly, no, you’re not,” Minghao snorts, stretching out his legs and leaning back to roll out his neck. The long lean line of him on the floor is beautiful, and Mingyu is struck by how even the sight of Minghao taking off the condom and tying it off with his pretty hands makes him a little emotional, reminds him of being young and discovering each other. “And I mean, you have a scene to shoot with Seungkwanie. That gonna be okay?”

The diminutive takes Mingyu a little by surprise, but he nods, pressing a kiss to the top of Minghao’s head. “I think this finally puts us on equal footing. He’ll probably just ignore it, and then we can move on from here.”

As it turns out, they may move on from there, but Seungkwan does not ignore it.

There’s an electricity singing in the air, like a hot summer’s day, one where you can hear the wires as much as you can see them. Seungkwan is watching for him, iced coffee in hand and costume pressed clean, when Mingyu comes out of the trailer, some good minutes after he’s kissed Minghao goodbye so he could return to the shop.

Chaeyoung looks over him, and she has a little too knowing a twinkle in her eye as she re-pomades his hair. The light is starting to fade, and Seungkwan’s cheeks hollow with a long sip of his Americano, backlit by the setting sun, which twists something in Mingyu’s stomach that he ignores.

The scene goes fine. In Mingyu’s opinion.

Of course, after two (fine, possibly stilted, perhaps a _little_ wooden) takes, Seungkwan falls back into his old habits, and grits out, “Mingyu. Hyung. You can’t be serious.”

“What?” Mingyu sighs.

Something impatient thrills over Seungkwan’s face, and he seems to decide between something. He smiles, and his cheeks are soft but his eyes are sharp. “You’re so stiff. Not just delivery, either, but your body language. Are you stretching enough, hyung? How are your knees?”

Oh, _fuck_ Boo Seungkwan.

“Is everything okay, gentlemen?” Wonwoo calls from the chair, and Mingyu cuts his eyes at Seungkwan.

“Fine! We’re ready to go again,” Seungkwan responds. A switch flipped, and he’s Chunja again.

Mingyu stretches out his legs, and it does help, which is supremely annoying. A deep breath of his own, and he reaches for Wook.

He was already hyperaware of things on set. Now, with every take, every day, Mingyu notices everything.

Mingyu notices when Seungkwan rewatches his takes, chewing on the pad of his thumb, talking quietly with Wonwoo about character and intention. He asks the team to edit things a certain way, finding out why they choose what they do in the end. He suggests a scene would be better reshot from another angle, and Tzuyu checks her watch and says, “Let’s give it a try!” and it _works._ He’s brilliant, drawing theatre in every breath, treating each take like he’s got the audience not in front of their televisions and laptops, but right in front of him.

There’s something so deliberate and detailed and whipsmart about Seungkwan. Everything he does, he pursues with everything he is.

Mingyu sees the corner of Seungkwan’s eye trained on himself and his husband, who starts hearing more groans and less grievances when Mingyu comes home.

And that instills a rather foreboding sense of… something in Mingyu.  
  


•

When he steps out of the car and winds his way through the crowd for the _Finding Us_ premiere, finally finding his footing as he moves to step onto the carpet, the first thought that crosses Mingyu’s mind is that dramas might be exaggerated, but sometimes the crowd really does part and a light shines and someone turns into it and your breath is stolen away. Sometimes that’s real. They had to get it from somewhere, right?

Three meters away, Seungkwan is chatting with some pretty idol who got her first win last week, and he’s laughing with her, something real that lights him up from the inside out, the way he was with his sister when she visited set, the way he is with the makeup team and the female actors, genuine and comfortable. He turns with the force of his laughter and Mingyu _feels_ it, the exact moment something in his chest slides into his stomach with a churning hiss, stomach acid bubbling up around it and swallowing it whole, irretrievably mangled.

He doesn’t know what to do. 

So Mingyu ducks behind another actor to move off the carpet, lets out a terribly loud exhale that startles his young manager, who fumbles his phone. Mingyu bows and mumbles an apology and cranes his neck to get another look while he can.

Mingyu’s second thought is that his husband has some explaining to do, because Mingyu would recognize Minghao’s work anywhere, and the ‘secret project’ he’s been working on the last few weeks is absolutely making itself known in front of him.

Seungkwan’s suit is unlike anything Mingyu’s seen before, just a trouser and a shirt, no jacket. It’s how he knows it’s Minghao’s — there’s something so casual yet formal about it, the perfect marriage of the two. Everything fits perfectly, which is exactly the problem. The stitching on his camel-brown button-up gives shape to the soft, almost suedelike fabric draped over his shoulders, delicate and structured at the same time. The waist tapers ridiculously to charcoal pants that more than flatter, sky-blue piping on the pockets and a matching foldover cuff at the ankle. But that isn’t the worst of it.

From this angle Mingyu can see the highlight: a stitched, purposeful cutout at the small of his back, big enough that it kisses the slope of his back, with a jeweled chain, citrine, dangling delicately against the wildflower honey of his skin. 

And Seungkwan is all glowing-warm tones and candlelight, even against the harsh flashes of the cameras. It’s breathtaking.

Minghao has outdone himself.

So Mingyu gawks, all but posing with the potted plant at the edge of the carpet, trying and failing to drag his eyes anywhere else, when his publicist suddenly appears beside him, a horror-movie jumpscare in Gucci and Lemeteque.

“Most staff would find it odd when their celebrity clients spend the bulk of time at the premiere of their own drama hiding behind fake shrubbery, afraid to approach their costar. But that’s why I’m on your team, Mingyu,” Jeonghan says, standing purposely beside him but not looking at him while he speaks. “I just let you do shit like this and don’t bat an eye. Best in the business.”

Mingyu grumbles and stands up straight. “Is this where I’m supposed to thank you?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.” 

Jeonghan grins at Mingyu, looking up from his phone to raise both eyebrows. His fingers are still moving, though, and Mingyu wonders how something so simple both comforts and unsettles him.

“Speaking of thanks, though, you’ll thank me when you’re done with your interviews. You and Seungkwan are set for them down the carpet, mostly the usual tv coverage and tabloids, but I thought you might want to talk to a few smaller interviewers too. Lee Chan from _Crown of Roses_ is up first, and I know how much you support them.”

Mingyu’s face lights up. Being on the cover of _Crown of Roses_ is only one of his life’s dreams, but he’ll do anything he can for their publication anyway. Sort the mail. Get coffee. Take out the trash. “Ah, hyung, you’re the best, thank you!”

Jeonghan preens, smug as ever. “That’s more like it. Now stop avoiding your costar and go take your media before I do.”

“Fine,” Mingyu says, faking like he’s walking away before wrapping Jeonghan in a hug.

He wriggles, patting at Mingyu’s arm and trying to smooth out his outfit. “Yah, Mingyu!”

“Relax, hyung! My jacket is more expensive than yours!” Mingyu singsongs, and hears Jeonghan mutter about _ungrateful clients, you’re a best man at their wedding and these are the thanks you get_ as he wanders closer to where Seungkwan is posing for photographs with his idol friend.

Texting and walking is a skill not easily acquired, especially if you are Kim Mingyu, so he pauses briefly at the berm of fake shrubbery.

_i can’t believe you!!!!!!!_

**minghao:** _if i find out you’re texting me on your premiere carpet, mingyu…_

 **minghao:** _😇 have fun, love. i’ll see you on tv_

The vague text says it all. Minghao knows exactly what’s going on, and that more than anything settles that feeling in Mingyu’s chest to a vibrating ache that he can at least cover up for now, that he can drape a decorative cashmere throw blanket over in the presence of company to acknowledge later when he is at home, alone. Or with Minghao’s help. Or never.

When Mingyu turns off his phone and tucks it into his jacket pocket, Seungkwan is already waiting for him, somehow, eyebrow and hip cocked in a way that suits him far too well. Suddenly Mingyu is filled with the urge to hurl his cell phone down the carpet, but lets Seungkwan step close into his space to brush at his jacket and tut at him.

“God, hyung, what would your husband say if he saw the state of you?”

He would probably fuss a little over everything laying flat and looking nice, too, actually, but Mingyu won’t give Seungkwan the satisfaction of knowing that. He sighs, picking off one (1) stray thread from the lapel of his jacket. “Probably ‘hello,’ or another standard greeting, but by now I’m well aware you aren’t familiar with those.”

Seungkwan laughs, and the sound of it funnels straight through Mingyu, swan diving into the pit of his stomach. He leads Mingyu toward the _Crown of Roses_ interviewer. “Come on, we have a Q&A with a friend. Oh, Channie, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

Chan rolls his eyes goodnaturedly and deftly juggles his tape recorder and tablet into one hand, stylus in the other. “Seungkwanie-hyung, must we do this dance every time?”

“Only when I have a new partner,” Seungkwan glitters at Chan, tugging Mingyu closer by a beltloop.

They knock together, Seungkwan ready for it, and it looks like he fucking hipchecks Mingyu for all his unsteadiness. Seungkwan catches Mingyu on his other side when he stumbles, his petite hand pressed into the dip of Mingyu’s waist, and he shoots Mingyu a faux-concerned look that Mingyu waves off with a sheepish laugh.

“Chan-ssi, I’m a big fan of your publication,” Mingyu confesses before he loses the nerve, and he counts it as a point to himself when this fact seems to genuinely surprise Seungkwan. “I’ve been reading _Crown of Roses_ since I was… well, definitely way too young to be reading some of the articles in _Crown of Roses.”_ He laughs self-deprecatingly, eyeing Chan, who’s smiling. Mingyu wonders briefly if this man, who is all smooth skin and balanced technology and bemused expression, did the same.

“I think that’s a fairly universal experience for many of us,” Chan says eagerly. “It’s really great to know that there are popular stars who aren’t afraid to connect themselves with the work we do here.” He means broad-scope stories and chronicles, fostering a community platform, being out and existing and _living._

And Mingyu certainly isn’t afraid of connecting with that, especially not anymore. “I wish there were more. There should be more vocal activists among us. We should use our faces, our voices, for good while we can.”

“Exactly. It’s why I—well, we,” Seungkwan corrects, giving Mingyu a small smile, “were so drawn to working on _Finding Us,_ because it’s modern in that way. No other drama is telling stories in this way, for people like us. We’re proud to be associated with it, and hope _Crown of Roses_ readers feel the same way.”

Chan nods, beaming, through the rest of their interview, and when he finishes adding notes to his tablet, pulls Seungkwan into a warm hug. “Thanks for inviting me, hyung,” he says. Seungkwan looks like he’s going to ruffle Chan’s hair, but thinks better of it and just pats his cheek fondly. To Mingyu, he adds, “I hope you and your husband are doing well, Mingyu-ssi. Thank you for speaking with us.”

“Gladly. Any time, seriously. And I meant what I said. My stack of vintage _Crowns_ is one of my only prides,” Mingyu says, wincing at the pathetic way it comes out.

“Forgive him, Channie, it’s his first day out of doors.”

“Yah, Seungkwan, I’m networking,” Mingyu mutters.

Chan laughs, but it’s not unkind, producing a vibrantly embossed business card that Mingyu holds in both hands like a golden ticket. “Let’s talk soon, then. I’d love to chat.”

Seungkwan plucks the card out of Mingyu’s hands and tucks it into the inner pocket of Mingyu’s jacket with his cell phone. “You better not lose this.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “I won’t, believe me.” But something gives him pause, and he looks back at where Jeonghan is in conversation with another entertainer type, some lithe dancer’s-body thing who has finally unglued Jeonghan’s face from his smartphone. “You were the one who invited Chan-ssi?”

Shrugging, Seungkwan runs a hand over the side of his hair, smoothing down what few flyaways he has. There’s nothing big on his face when he says, “Chan deserves a press pass, and _Crown_ deserves to be here. You know as well as I do what a drama like this is going to mean. What a difference it would have made if something like this was airing when we were growing up. It only makes sense to link together what we _did_ have and what we wish we had.”

Mingyu does know. Mingyu knows searching in all the wrong places to make sense of his feelings, knows fumbling in the dark with Minghao in high school before he could put a name to any of it, knows poring cover to cover over what issues of _Crown of Roses_ he could hide, latching onto stories of people who were like him, and who were _happy._ And it seems like Seungkwan knows it, too.

As they work their way through the throng, Seungkwan is unsurprisingly capable, answering interviewers with charm and the appropriate balance of forthcoming and withholding. Every journalist and blogger receives the same amount of weight and respect, and he volleys even more incisive, probing curveballs with ease. When Jiwoo and Nagyung join them for a few conversations, Mingyu finds himself in a masterclass in dynamic, rising to meet his industry juniors where they are.

And with each confident interview, Mingyu and Seungkwan riff off one another. Seungkwan is playing everything perfectly, a consummate professional, and all the while Mingyu knows he’s staring at the slope of his back and the shape of his face and the quirk of his lips, hoping beyond hope that there isn’t a tacky neon sign announcing that he’s _approaching disgustingly attracted_ displayed over his head for everyone to see. 

There’s small reassurance in the fact that this, like any other carpet, is an industry schmoozefest. As polite and gracious as everyone is outwardly, the fact is that virtually everyone is here for themselves and themselves alone, self-congratulatory in that sour way that lingers in Mingyu’s mouth after every one.

Most of the time Minghao is dressing someone, working to ensure his vision is being realized on the carpet, on television, in fansites’ cameras. So to have Seungkwan snickering beside Mingyu, knocking a shoulder against his and gasping about so-and-so’s dress, it’s… It’s nice.

It does some work at stretching out the tension in Mingyu’s body, tight like a rubber band, that just wants to reach out and touch Seungkwan, to trace his fingertips over the delicate design Minghao painstakingly cut out, because the more he thinks about it the more wound up he gets, and he’s starting to get worried that Seungkwan can tell.

“Only one more interview left,” Seungkwan says eagerly, waving his arms loose and liquid like a jellyfish. Mingyu laughs.

“Oh, but what will you do without the spotlight on you for five minutes, Seungkwanie?” he teases.

Seungkwan is already walking down the carpet to the last interview point, a live broadcast interview, standard fare. He looks back at Mingyu over his shoulder with a heavy look, a smile melting slow over his face like sap dripping out of a tree. Mingyu’s eyes move of their own volition, sliding down the planes of Seungkwan’s shoulders to the cutout, his waist, his perfectly tailored pants, and Mingyu feels rather than hears a little squeaky whine make its way up his throat, the _click_ of a spring loading. 

When Mingyu meets his eye again, Seungkwan’s smile widens, the _snap_ of the trap slamming shut.

Two can play at that game.

An assistant shuffles them into place at the end of the walkway, a corner of carpet framed by the edge of the old theatre where the premiere is being shown. They’re backed up against the backdrop, a rather large fake plant (why can’t they just get real plants? the volume of faux foliage in a square kilometer here is astounding), and Mingyu steadies himself with a hand on Seungkwan’s back, up by his shoulderblade, taking just a half-step back to maneuver himself just so. He’s taller than Seungkwan. It’s only logical.

The interviewer is pretty, one Mingyu has spoken to before doing press for his last drama, and she never asks anything all too hard-hitting. While he and Seungkwan introduce themselves, Mingyu lets his hand slowly, naturally, skim down the dip of Seungkwan’s spine. Seungkwan is asked about his character, and out tumbles his poised, practiced answer, while Mingyu’s hand seizes the opportunity to slide into the cutout, fingertips tracing along the fabric-edged swirl, the chain swishing coolly over the back of his hand.

Of course Seungkwan is good at keeping it together, nothing given away but for a sharp, quick intake of breath when Mingyu first does it, warm fingers on smooth, moonlit skin. Blink and you’d miss it. The windscreen on the mic is too plush to catch it, but Mingyu sure isn’t. He tries not to smile, biting at the inside of his cheek, and in his periphery he sees the little glare Seungkwan throws his way. Smugness settles over his face as his thumb feels the slope of his back start to curve into Seungkwan’s ass, and he feels a tremble shiver up Seungkwan’s spine. Mingyu tries not to want so badly to capture it, to cup electricity in his hands, does his best to smother the desire to see Seungkwan tremble in earnest for him, to not wonder if Minghao meant for this exactly to happen. He trails his fingers back up, slowly, while he gives answers and a winning smile to wrap up their interview.

The tabloid teams pack up, and Mingyu pulls back, letting his hand run all the way back up to Seungkwan’s shoulderblade casually before they wander inside and to their seats with the rest of the invited guests.

Seungkwan’s hand catches Mingyu’s wrist when he withdraws entirely, his small fingers circling just below Mingyu’s Rolex. They tighten like a warning, snug like a handcuff, and Mingyu wants to douse the ember flickering below his stomach at the feeling.

It doesn’t go away while they take their seats, while the production team talks about all the cast and crew’s hard work, while Seungkwan texts during the light changeover and while he watches himself act onscreen alongside Jiwoo and Nagyung and Seungkwan and all his other coworkers, the _Finding Us_ family. As engrossed as he is, there’s something humming in the air, something palpable that Mingyu can’t shake.

When the lights come up, Mingyu glances over into the seat next to him, where Seungkwan is discreetly tilting the screen of his phone to the side so Mingyu can read his exchange in full:

 **seungkwan:** _thank you for the outfit, hyung! it’s been perfect tonight_

 **minghao:** _you’re welcome! you’re wearing it well._

 **minghao:** _i saw your live red carpet interview with mingyu. what does he think of your look?_

 **seungkwan:** _i’m sure he loves everything you design, but i think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. can i give mingyu a ...gift to take home to you?_

 **minghao:** _of course. i can’t wait to see it, ㅋㅋ_

Eyebrows knit together, Mingyu looks up at Seungkwan’s face, but Seungkwan is looking ahead at the screen as the credits finish rolling, clapping politely with the rest of the audience. While Tzuyu and Wonwoo give their directorial gratitude, Seungkwan tugs Mingyu by the hand to stand and wave, his short, well-groomed nails biting into the meat of Mingyu’s palm. As usual, his face betrays nothing as he handsomely smiles gratefully at the rest of the attendees, and Mingyu bows.

It’s been a beautiful opportunity, and he hopes it doesn’t end here.

They file out of the screening room with the rest of the audience, but in the throng Seungkwan slips away, Mingyu in tow by their threaded fingers, dragging him into the single restroom before the rest of the audience finds it. It’s clad in velvet and gold like the other rooms in this old cinema, almost like a dressing room from the Golden Age.

Seungkwan locks the door.

“In theatre, it’s tradition for the leading roles to give one another opening night gifts,” Seungkwan says, turning to look at himself in the mirror. He fixes his hair with prim fingers and eyes Mingyu’s reflection with a gaze like steel, like the cameras at work. It’s worse than the cameras, because the cameras don’t smirk like this, or sweep their hair off their face and turn to look up at him through their eyelashes. “Now, this will work a little differently, but I thought you and Minghao-hyung could share this one.”

Mingyu’s throat constricts as Seungkwan reaches up, getting two fingers under Mingyu’s bow tie to loosen it and tug it free from his collar, shoving it into the sinfully tight back pocket of his pants. He runs a thumbnail down the length of Mingyu’s neck, not hard enough to scrape, just tracing his veins, running a shiver right down his spine. Mingyu feels like his body is electric, fluorescent lights zapping under his skin. He can’t deny it anymore; he wants Seungkwan, bad.

Popping open one, then two, then three buttons on Mingyu’s couture shirt, Seungkwan says sweetly, “I hope you hate it, for all your bad behavior,” roughly yanks open Mingyu’s collar, and leans in.

At the first lick of Seungkwan’s tongue over his collarbone, Mingyu whines, but the sound is tugged out into a wild, uncontrollable noise when Seungkwan’s teeth sink into his skin. He _sucks,_ tugging Mingyu’s flushed skin into his mouth, and Mingyu is frozen, hands gripping the vanity like he’s been turned to stone. The wet sound of Seungkwan’s mouth moving messy over his skin shoots through Mingyu, and all he can think is, _I’m supposed to share_ this _with Minghao?,_ and also _Fuck._

Mingyu lets Seungkwan nip, lave over the inevitably deep-blush mark on his chest, and trace his tongue over the line of his collarbone, over the bite in a circle, but it’s impossible for him to keep quiet, his high-pitched panting reverberating between the mirrors in the room.

The pressure and suction shoots down Mingyu’s spine, tugging warmth behind his bellybutton where that ember has been smoldering all night and igniting a fire in the pit of his stomach. Seungkwan’s teeth scrape slow and deep, and Mingyu finds himself hoping there are little imprints of each one in his skin that last long enough for Minghao to trace with his tongue later.

Seungkwan pulls back, admires his handiwork with dropped eyelids, and Mingyu drinks in the look of him, poised to the eye but for roses blooming on the apples of his cheeks. 

This push-pull is torture, but Mingyu knows it means something. Seungkwan doesn’t spend time on things he doesn’t think are worthwhile. And that thought kickstarts something in Mingyu’s stomach he’s not sure he’s ready to deal with, at least, not without Minghao to help comb the reasoning out of his brain.

When Seungkwan straightens up, Mingyu leans forward, shuffling closer a half-step to try to capture Seungkwan’s mouth with his. His eyes snap open, though, when he meets Seungkwan’s fingers instead of his lips. The half-pitying look Seungkwan gives him, hand pressed against Mingyu’s mouth to stop him in his tracks, sends a spike of attraction through Mingyu, especially since there’s a flicker of poorly-disguised want behind the condescension. It’s good to know it’s not just Mingyu in all of this.

“Be patient,” Seungkwan purrs into Mingyu’s ear, low and amused. “I want to wait for your husband.”

 _Oh._ Well, in that case, Mingyu has an advantage again. 

He grins against Seungkwan’s fingertips, still pressed against his lips, and lets his jaw drop open. In an instant, Seungkwan’s fingers end up in his mouth, and Mingyu gives Seungkwan his brattiest, prettiest look as he licks around Seungkwan’s fingers, letting saliva pool between them. 

If it’s messy he wants, it’s messy he’ll get.

To his credit, the annoyed noise Seungkwan makes in the back of his throat is extremely sexy, and he tugs his hand back, smearing Mingyu’s drool over his own jaw when he grips it to tilt his face down toward him. The skin of his hand is soft, the tension in his grip firm, and the slide of it wet and cold in the warm incandescence around them. 

Seungkwan fixes Mingyu with a withering stare, letting him think about what he’s done, before darting his tongue out. Mingyu follows its quick little path with his eyes, doesn’t care how obvious he is. Seungkwan licks along the pad of his clean thumb and swipes it across Mingyu’s parted lips. Jesus Christ.

“Tell me when you get home what your husband thinks of you, hyung,” Seungkwan murmurs like a promise, giving Mingyu a glimpse of a genuine, glowing smile, pretty and unpolished, before leaving him, unbuttoned and disheveled and unfathomably horny, at this premiere party all alone.  
  


•

Things the noise Mingyu lets out when he gets home sound like:

  * when you don’t realize there’s a spoon in the garbage disposal and pour food overtop of it for three days before turning it on again,
  * the anguished cry of an orca whale who lost his pod traversing the ocean alone until he is finally reunited,
  * that time Mingyu accidentally zipped his dick into some too-small leather pants trying to impress Minghao when they were first dating,
  * a balloon that is slowly being relieved of its helium, but inside a high-security safe so the sound reverberates within fire-protected concrete,
  * the dull _thud_ of his dress shoes hitting the baseboard of the entryway, the _clink_ of his pilfered wine bottle against the kitchen counter, the _pitter-patter_ of his socked feet dashing into the master bedroom, and the _whoomp_ of his body flopping face-first onto their bed, still suited and made up.



“Hello, my love,” Minghao directs toward Mingyu’s back, one hand gently trailing up the line of his spine. Mingyu turns his face to look at him for one moment and promptly buries his face back in the blankets.

He’s wearing a sheet mask because he’s in bed, and the flatscreen is still showing red carpet footage on mute, and Mingyu just cannot catch a break, can he? Objectively he recognizes that he is very lucky and leads a charmed life and never wants for anything, except everything, all the time, but _still._

Facedown, Mingyu groans into the duvet cover like a shitty ghost sound effect, and Minghao laughs quietly. Fondly and a little condescendingly, even. If Mingyu hadn’t already gotten so worked up tonight that he’s turned the corner back to exhausted, he might be getting a little turned on. But as it stands, he needs to whine, and his husband will understand, as he inevitably always does.

“Did you have a good time tonight? I’m so proud of you,” says Minghao, and Mingyu crawls up to peel off the sheet mask and kiss him.

“It was nice,” Mingyu admits. “They served the nice wine like they did at the wrap party. I stole a bottle for you.”

Minghao’s face lights up with pride and love, eyes flashing with something grateful and he runs a hand through Mingyu’s hair to shake out some of the crunch of industrial-strength hair product. Minghao likes when his hair is gentle and soft, anyway. “Oh! Thank you, Mingyu.”

“I wish you had been there tonight. But instead you left me to fend for myself against the wolves.” He’s pouting, fakely, but Minghao kisses at it anyway. 

It’s a task to wriggle out of Minghao’s arms to start changing, and Minghao follows Mingyu a little, ending up on his stomach, propped on his elbows as he watches Mingyu get undressed.

“I would have come if you had really wanted me there,” Minghao says. “Work could have waited. I couldn’t stand draping and pinning at the shop while you were off being handsome, anyway. Kind of nice to watch my husband on tv.”

Mingyu hangs up his jacket. “You can watch your husband on tv every day, they show my first series all the time.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I don’t mind, though. I like coming home to you.” Mingyu smiles into the closet as he pulls out the contents of his pockets.

Minghao hums exaggeratedly, lascivious, when Mingyu bends over to fold his pants, and Mingyu laughs and pinkens. “Stop ogling my ass!”

“You’d just as easily convince me to pawn our wedding rings,” Minghao grumbles, lying with his cheek pressed against his forearm.

“I knew you wrote your vows with it in mind.” Mingyu sways his hips teasingly, shucking off his wrinkled shirt last.

“Oh, a wolf _did_ get you, didn’t he?” Minghao gasps when Mingyu turns back to him, scrambling up onto his palms to get a better look. “Wow,” he breathes, reaching out a hand from a good meter away. “Can I see it?”

Mingyu’s own hand flies to the tender spot just below his collarbone. He had nearly forgotten all about it despite the dull ache radiating from it, but he looks down at himself now in just his briefs and nearly gasps himself. The crimson and eggplant of the hickey bloom like flowers over his skin, deepest at the spot where Seungkwan sank his teeth in like he was trying to get at Mingyu’s heart. Smaller petals nipped over the swell of his chest, fluttering down from the pistil, both delicate and aggressive at once.

Mingyu can’t believe how mottled he looks. But Minghao is looking at him like he’s art.

As Mingyu steps closer, Minghao stands up on his knees, the delicate caps of them sinking into their bed, and gestures Mingyu close. His beautiful hands skim over Mingyu’s chest, gentler than breaths over aching, bruised-apple skin.

Minghao doesn’t tease, doesn’t snake a hungry hand back to grip Mingyu’s behind, just gazes reverently up at Mingyu, kissing the confetti of marks over his skin and gently coaxing him into bed.

“Is this your thank-you gift?” Mingyu asks, lower lip tender from biting at it.

Minghao smiles and ghosts a kiss over Mingyu’s heart, right atop the deepest red-violet mark, before pulling Mingyu into his arms and tracing his chest with a finger. “I think I deserve it, don’t I?”

“Yes.” And it’s true. Mingyu has been proud to wear some of Minghao’s finest work, but tonight was the pinnacle of his career, in Mingyu’s opinion.

With that barest prompting Mingyu’s mind falls again to the curve of Seungkwan’s back, the slope of his waist giving way to his unbelievable hips and thighs and ass. Thinks of the demure, subtle peek of soft, dimpled skin at the small of his back through the window Minghao himself designed, knowing that less is more, more, more. 

Better yet, though, Mingyu reflects on how _comfortable_ Seungkwan looked, how confidence radiated from his every pore. How he finally, finally seemed to look like he felt, glowing with self-assurance and pride, and how despite himself Mingyu felt more drawn than ever to the man he’s spent weeks working alongside. 

He’s seen it, when Seungkwan nails a take and lets a smug, happy look grace his features, challenge in his eyes to encourage Mingyu to meet him at that level, and Mingyu pulls a face but rises to the occasion, every time. And he thinks he’s imagined a moment or two after a particularly good scene when Seungkwan smiles over at him from the side of the set, arms crossed like he doesn’t care but scrutinizing eyes saying something like _good job._

Mingyu thinks about the way he is always soaring with energy and satisfaction when Seungkwan seems pleased with his performance, and even more so when Seungkwan seems extra soft after Minghao visits the set. 

Thinks about Minghao designing for him, cutting Seungkwan a suit for one of the most important events in Seungkwan’s life. The careful hands that touch Mingyu like he’s the most precious thing in this world spending weeks handcrafting something for someone else, someone who Mingyu respects. Someone who Mingyu and Minghao talk about together. 

Someone who Mingyu thinks about.

He thinks all of this with his mouth shut, overwhelmed by internal stimuli. (It’s somewhat of a new experience.)

“Minggoo-yah,” Minghao says, running the brush from his bedside table through Mingyu’s hair to finally comb out the last of the product. “What are you thinking?”

Mingyu opens his mouth, but the wiring must be crossed, because instead of any of the things he’s been thinking about, his tear ducts whirr into action and he finds himself near to crying. The sound that croaks out of his throat is a strangled little thing, the whine of a confused little robot, and Minghao hums understandingly.

“Is it time to talk about it, love?”

Go figure.

“Talk about what,” Mingyu manages, turning his face and burying it in Minghao’s neck. 

Minghao lets out a little hum and presses his cheek against the top of Mingyu’s head. “You were doing very well, I think.”

This gives Mingyu pause. “What do you mean?”

Suddenly it seems like Minghao is trying not to laugh, and Mingyu’s hackles raise. “Oh, Mingyu… Every cell in your body screams _I want Seungkwan,_ in this beautiful, outrageous, coordinated way. Like they’re screaming together so loudly it sounds like a choir, harmonics and everything. Every time you look at him it’s like you can’t figure out if you want him to fight you or fuck you. But up until now you’ve been very good at keeping it surface-level. Or,” Minghao reconsiders, “Or at least convincing yourself it was just that.”

Mingyu lets out an indignant squeak. He… Well… That’s just… 

Minghao laughs, then, finally, tickled by Mingyu’s brush-soft hair and fluttering eyelashes. Mingyu pulls back and pouts. “Don’t laugh at meeee.”

Minghao is looking in Mingyu’s eyes, a smile still playing on his lips. “I’m not, I’m sorry. I just… I didn't think this would go this far. Any of it.”

Mingyu’s brow wrinkles, and he grunts in confusion.

A beat. Minghao mutters, “Wow, even knowing how you feel it’s still hard to say it.”

And that’s new, too. Minghao is usually the one with his feelings laid out on the table, already thought-out by the time he’s ready to share them. It’s been something that brings balance to their relationship; where Mingyu feels first, asks questions later, Minghao turns over stones in his mind, builds up a case for himself. Things have gotten easier with time, Mingyu verbalizing his feelings and Minghao not needing to be entirely sure before saying what he means, and both of them being a little too heart-on-their-sleeve for their own good.

So Mingyu gives Minghao a hopeful smile, and Minghao sighs. He says in his plain, perfect way, “I have feelings for Seungkwan, and you do too. What would you like to do about it?”

Stammering, Mingyu buries himself further into the crook of Minghao’s neck.

He doesn’t know where to start. 

He wants to do everything about it, actually.

Ever-practical, Minghao starts at the beginning. “Maybe we should ask him on a date,” Minghao muses, pushing Mingyu’s hair off his face to stroke a thumb over his eyebrow. The look in his eyes is serious. He’s serious. 

Something swoops into Mingyu’s stomach, something optimistic and stressed and _excited,_ and he feels his face heat up. “Yeah. Please. Yes. Okay.”

The kiss Minghao gives him leaves him a little breathless, and when they pull apart so Minghao can tug the covers over them, Mingyu forgets he needs to wash his face in favor of thinking of possibilities.

And in the morning, Mingyu wakes with the ache of the night weighing on his body.

Mingyu yawns. The sun streaks through the blinds from the window, striping their bed with light and warmth, and Minghao, too, is lit up golden and ethereal, curled around Mingyu’s side with a sleep-gentle expression and messy hair. Mingyu is struck by one of those moments, one of those little reminders where he gets to think, _this is my husband, this is mine to love,_ and the dull pain in his bones turns to a full-chested feeling that makes his next breath that much deeper.

Minghao’s big hand spans a good stretch of Mingyu’s chest, blushing violet peeking out between his delicate fingers like he brought Mingyu home a bouquet. He’s astonished by how beautiful it is, the contrast between the soft, warm hand holding him close and the pretty way Seungkwan’s rough bites have bloomed into something more.

There’s a gentle presence to it that Mingyu likes, something added to their relationship rather than elbowing its way in. He wants more of it, tries to finally admit to himself that he wants the glow of the person who put it there beside them, too. 

And he does. He wants Seungkwan here, with Minghao, with him.

 _Tell me what your husband thinks of you,_ Seungkwan’s voice echoes between his ears, and Mingyu feels his heart rate pick up at the mere thought, fumbling for his cell phone on the charger where Minghao must have plugged it in for him in the middle of the night. He snaps a picture, phone silent when it flashes with the capture, Minghao’s hand splayed over his chest and Seungkwan’s decorations glowing in the morning sunlight.

_is this what you meant? [image.jpg]_

**seungkwan:** _read 08:47_

Mingyu’s heart stirs, along with something else he’s beginning to name in the pit of his stomach, the thrum in his body building anticipation for Seungkwan’s inevitable response.

But minutes and minutes go by, and nothing. Mingyu frowns, laying his phone onto his stomach, then picking it up, waiting for the buzz that never comes.

“Minghao,” he whispers, brushing Minghao’s hair off his face. “Jagiya, are you awake?”

A vague _mmn-_ like noise comes from Minghao as he rouses, rubbing his cheek against Mingyu’s shoulder, absently wiping drool into Mingyu’s skin.

“I need your help,” Mingyu says, soft.

Minghao nods sleepily, pushing himself up to lie against Mingyu’s chest properly and look up at him. “What is it?”

Mingyu holds out his cell phone, and Mingyu rubs his eyes blearily, unfocused as he takes the phone in hand and squints at the screen. It takes him a few moments, but he makes a noise of recognition.

“Mingyu, explain.”

And so he does. Mingyu’s mouth opens and everything falls out, _tell me what your husband thinks of you,_ his mouth pressing against Mingyu’s skin, Minghao’s design, and even before, watching him watch the takes back on the monitor, worrying his lip between his teeth as he ran lines on his own, bringing Nagyung and Jiwoo flowers on their first day table read.

Minghao awakens more as Mingyu talks, and coaxes him out of bed into the kitchen for coffee, his sleep pants hanging low and sexy on his lean hips, and Mingyu is trying awfully hard not to consume a cocktail of emotion this heady before breakfast.

“So this date…”

“Tonight. I’ll cook,” Mingyu says.

Minghao presses a kiss to Mingyu’s neck, sweet, below his ear. Silently saying, _yes, please, that sounds good, I’m excited,_ in a language only Mingyu speaks. “Okay, then, tonight.”

 **minghao:** _come to dinner tonight, seungkwanie?_

 **seungkwan:** _i appreciate the offer, hyung, but i don’t think that’s a good idea_

 **minghao:** _we want you to come to dinner. please_

There’s a long wait, punctuated by the slow drip of coffee brewing from Mingyu’s French press, Minghao too restless to sit down so he hovers around Mingyu, who stares at the coffeemaker like he can read the grounds like tea leaves.

“Funny, I thought I was done waiting for texts back after we graduated high school,” Minghao says, running his thumbnail over the peel of a tangerine and pulling out a section.

Mingyu half-smiles. “I always kept you waiting, didn’t I?”

Shrugging, Minghao sucks the juice off his thumb. “You figured it out eventually. And you were worth the wait.”

 **seungkwan:** _what time?_

“I think this will be, too,” says Minghao.

•

At eight o’clock (punctuality, a quality Mingyu has not forgotten he finds attractive in a man), Seungkwan toes off his shoes at the door. When he shrugs off his coat, the blue sweater he’s wearing is soft and loose, cashmere, by the looks of it, if Minghao has taught him anything. Minghao greets Seungkwan with a hug, takes his coat from him, hangs it beside theirs on the hooks by the door. Mingyu’s chest aches at the sight from where he’s portioning dinner into bowls, jjajangmyeon, three table settings. Minghao said a candle might be laying it on a little thick, but Mingyu isn’t convinced.

“You made dinner?” Seungkwan says, sounding surprised as he wanders into the kitchen, presumably to bother Mingyu. “I would have thought you pick up on the way home.”

“You assume a lot about me, Seungkwanie.” Mingyu holds out the chopsticks, and lets himself stare with bated breath as Seungkwan opens his mouth for the bite, takes in Seungkwan chewing thoughtfully among their subway tile and stainless steel, next to the espresso machine and the toaster and the young tomato plant on the sill Minghao watches him water most mornings.

Lets a flutter go through his body when Seungkwan’s eyes widen. “This is good!”

Mingyu laughs, a pleased giggle of a thing that he can’t muster up the strength to be embarrassed about, and says, “You should see my knife skills.”

“Myungho-hyung! Your husband is threatening me!” Seungkwan hollers.

“Mingyu, stop threatening Seungkwanie.” Minghao smiles, leaning against the entryway with a hopelessly fond look on his face.

Pouting, Mingyu huffs, snatching his hand back from where Seungkwan is trying to maneuver it to scoop out another taster bite. “This is exactly the type of thing I knew would happen when we did this. Ganging up on me when I made dinner and everything.”

“We’re very grateful, love,” Minghao says as Mingyu passes to set dinner out on the table, pressing a kiss onto his cheek as he walks by.

Seungkwan wanders out behind them, and Minghao pulls out his chair at the table for him. There’s something sweet and simple about it, and Mingyu tries to aim his smile into his armful of dinner.

That’s how this all feels, simple and easy in a way that Mingyu could have only hoped for, swapping barbless snark across the table and dropping the egg from his bowl into Seungkwan’s bowl when he’s busy listening with rapture to Minghao’s Fashion Week stories. Like this is all overdue, laughing and teasing and watching his husband and Seungkwan brush hands when they pass radish to one another. Like this is something Mingyu wants too much to get used to.

“Time for dessert? We’ll share,” beams Minghao, patting Seungkwan’s hand atop the table before rising to collect the dishes.

Seungkwan nods resolutely and moves to stand too.

“Where are you going, I’ve got it,” Mingyu says. “Thank you for offering, though, finally, some manners.” He grins, clearing the bowls, but catches confusion flickering over Seungkwan’s face.

“Ah. I. I thought—” Seungkwan says, coloring beautifully, and oh. 

Mingyu gets it, suddenly, and a pit like a stone drops through him.

He thought this was a hookup. That dinner was a formality, that they were going to fuck him and he was going to leave and that that would be the resolution to all of this. That the sun would set on whatever high-octane flirtationship they’ve forged, one and done, and they would all walk away unscathed.

But there’s no chance of that now. Seungkwan can still walk away, no harm done, but that’s not an option for Mingyu anymore. Not an option for Minghao, either, who’s hovering behind his chair at the table, fingers flexed wide on the back of the seat and looking between them, uncharacteristically anxious.

A string pulls at the tangle inside Mingyu, tightening it up and squeezing at his heart and his lungs. “I made jjajangmyeon,” he says in a small voice, water pitcher wobbling in his hand. He sets it down. He doesn’t trust himself not to drown in it.

Seungkwan laughs, strained. “You sure did.”

“This was supposed to be a date, Seungkwan,” Minghao explains quietly, and it’s like time slows down.

Something palpable settles between the three of them, thickening the air. Mingyu is reminded of a childhood game, cracking imaginary eggs over skulls and running fingertips like waterfalls down spines, as he watches something crack over Seungkwan, brow to lips. Watches the same look of fear and open want melt over his features that Mingyu saw in the mirror, that Mingyu didn’t know how to identify for months.

“What?” Seungkwan moves to pull out his phone, still in the bit despite the terrified look on his face. “Uh, no, I feel like I would have recalled that minor detail.”

“Jagiya,” Mingyu says under his breath, admonishing Minghao, and Seungkwan’s face crumples at the term of endearment. Mingyu wants to cry.

“No. Hyungs. No, I—”

Mingyu’s hand finds Minghao’s, fingers threaded together, and Minghao grips hard, asking with all the calmness he can muster, “No?”

Seungkwan makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, plucking at a pill of fluff at the hem of his sweater. “Not _no,_ God, yes. That’s. I mean… No. You don’t have to do that, we can just fuck, you don’t have to—have to ply me with anything, it’s not… it’s not like that.”

“But it is,” Minghao says, pitch rising fearfully.

“No, hyung, it’s not. You have to understand. Casual is easy. Sex is easy. You can have that, I—I can be that, to a marriage. A marriage!” He laughs, and it sounds manic and despondent at once. “You’ve been married for four years! Happily so! That’s not for me to—to get in the middle of, to insinuate myself into. Do you know how hard it was, realizing that what I thought was me wanting what you have was actually me wanting you? Wanting to—wanting to be with you?”

It comes out aching, and when Seungkwan says it, he’s staring at one spot on the floor, still seated at their table like the world is moving around him, moving without him.

Minghao says, tight with regret, “You’re right. That wasn’t fair of us to do that to you. We shouldn’t have… we just wanted…” He loses steam the longer he goes, and locks eyes with Mingyu, pleading.

“Be with us. Stay with us, Seungkwanie.” It’s quiet and serious. Mingyu doesn’t know where to put his hands when he says it. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever you want.”

The way Seungkwan glances up at his tone, steeled for a snarky rebuttal, makes Mingyu’s chest constrict with familiarity, but when his eyes flick away and back up to meet Minghao’s, then Mingyu’s own, there’s something else there. Something nervous. 

Something vulnerable.

It’s beautiful and terrifying and Mingyu wants to kiss it off his face, cradle Seungkwan’s soft skin and cheekbones in both hands and press into his mouth how much he means it. How real it is. The way Minghao’s hand clutches his that much tighter and how he leans that much closer into the cradle of Mingyu’s shoulder means he sees it too. That they do this together, that they’re in it.

No more games. Just three sets of open eyes, three chests carved open. If ever there were a moment for clarity, it’s this. Now.

“I think I’m a little in love with you, Seungkwan,” Mingyu says, and he finds as he says it, the nerves dissipate, grounded by the steadying touch of Minghao’s hand in his. Minghao nudges him pointedly with a shoulder, though, and Mingyu sighs, faux-put-upon. “Maybe more than a little.”

“Hyung…” Seungkwan starts. He seems unsure about who to address first, or who he even means. His hands tense and untense, flexing in his lap, fidgeting.

“Seungkwan, we—we mean it.” Minghao reaches out and touches Seungkwan’s cheekbone gently. Seungkwan lets him. His hand slides down Seungkwan’s jaw, feather-light, and tips his face up with two fingers to look him in the eye. “We want you. In more than one way. In a very real way.”

Well, he shouldn’t misunderstand. “I mean, wanting you to rail us into oblivion is real too.” Something warm in Mingyu’s heart flickers into a flame when Seungkwan turns, and very obviously tries to give him a bored, exasperated look but ends up letting out a snort of laughter despite himself anyway, even as his jaw is tight with sadness. “But it’s not everything we feel for you.”

How Seungkwan has it in him to roll his eyes this hard but still look so unshielded is beyond Mingyu, the fondness that slips through Seungkwan’s cracks filling Mingyu with fluttery _maybe_ -ness and a feeling he can recognize now, with all Minghao’s help, as love.

Mingyu murmurs to Minghao, “I like him,” too-loud so Seungkwan can hear. Stage whispers. Seungkwan might know a thing or two about those.

“Me too,” Minghao smiles, and it’s directed at Seungkwan this time. 

He holds his hand out, palm-up, to help Seungkwan stand, and Seungkwan takes it.

As soon as Seungkwan is sturdy on two feet, Mingyu detangles himself from Minghao and throws his arms around Seungkwan’s neck, drawing him close for a hug. One of Seungkwan’s hands traces up and down the lower part of Mingyu’s spine gently, tentatively, and Mingyu tries not to shiver. He cradles the back of Seungkwan’s head with one hand, holding him close, and the stiff way Seungkwan was enveloped at first gives way to softness, Seungkwan melting into his arms and burying his face into Mingyu’s chest.

The top of his head smells good when Mingyu combs his fingers through it soothingly, all citrusy and fresh, and Mingyu takes a deep, steadying breath, letting Seungkwan’s scent mingle with Minghao’s gentle cologne in his nose in a way that makes him feel a little dizzy with perfection.

“I hate you,” Seungkwan mumbles into Mingyu’s chest, so soft and muffled he can barely make it out. His grip is strong despite how delicate his limbs are, and Mingyu gets the feeling Seungkwan would hit him, if he were to let go. “You made me like you so much. That’s so annoying.”

Startled, Mingyu laughs, then, some sort of sunshine filling him from the inside out, starting at his heart, under where Seungkwan’s face is smushed against him, and radiating through the rest of his body until he tingles.

“You can kiss him, you know,” Minghao says from beside them. It’s laced with something Mingyu recognizes as masked eagerness, but also something else, and Mingyu looks over at him. “Not you,” he says to Mingyu with a lopsided smile and a mock-chastising look in his eye.

Seungkwan unburies his face, then, to look at Minghao too, arms still wound around Mingyu’s waist. “Oh?”

Minghao nods, and Seungkwan looks up at Mingyu, big piercing eyes through pretty eyelashes, which, good _God,_ but Mingyu meets his gaze and realizes just what it is that Seungkwan means. What he wants, and what he needs, and what he is-but-isn’t asking for. A smile spreads over Mingyu’s face, because he can’t help it, and he nuzzles his cheek against the crown of Seungkwan’s head, moving his arms and letting him loose.

“Can I kiss you first, hyung?” Seungkwan asks Minghao quietly, reaching for his hand. It’s quiet enough that Mingyu can hardly hear it, which he supposes is the point. It’s not for him. It’s for Minghao.

Minghao looks a little shell-shocked. Mingyu’s heart feels full to bursting. And Seungkwan waits.

A tiny, almost imperceptible nod from his husband, and Mingyu sees Seungkwan lean up to brush his lips against Minghao’s. Even at the press of their mouths, gentle and testing, Minghao is standing ramrod-straight, like he’s afraid to make a move, so Mingyu steps closer, runs a hand over the small of his back. Feels Minghao pull back from Seungkwan, take a breath, and ask, “Again?” 

His voice sounds shaky, and Mingyu suddenly realizes— he was afraid to want this, too.

Seungkwan seems to read it, and reaches a hand up to touch Minghao’s cheek, an echo of Minghao’s soothing touch from minutes before, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone, a butterfly’s wing. It’s so tender, Mingyu could cry. But Seungkwan is smiling like his life is changing before his eyes, and he leans up again, and this time Minghao meets him more than halfway, melting into Seungkwan like butter meets a hot pan, instantaneously and smoothly.

Watching them kiss is like running alongside a train leaving the station, starting slowly, each drag of their lips together a pull along the track, but as moments pass, Mingyu sees Minghao’s broad, delicate hands find their way to Seungkwan’s stupid-gorgeous waist, and Mingyu sees the bread of Seungkwan’s cheeks push up with his smile, and Mingyu sees a sinful pink flicker of tongues as their kiss deepens, and it’s all Mingyu can do to try to catch his breath as the train disappears over the horizon. He feels dizzy with want, his husband kissing Seungkwan like his life depends on it, and for once in his life, he is quiet.

“Oh,” Minghao breathes when they pull apart, chest heaving. 

His hands hold fast to Seungkwan’s waist, and their hips are all but flush together. Seungkwan makes no move to escape.

“You didn’t think you weren’t part of this, did you?” Seungkwan asks, licking his parted lips like he craves more of Minghao. On a visceral level, Mingyu knows the feeling. 

The tone of Seungkwan’s voice is gentle like he’s cradling something precious in his petite hands, and he is, but it’s teasing, could be foreplay from the flush in his cheeks and the hungry way he can’t take his eyes off Minghao.

But the pink tinting Minghao’s own cheeks and ears deepens when Seungkwan asks it, and he flicks his eyes away from both Seungkwan and Mingyu, downcast toward some middle distance, and Mingyu understands very quickly that he has made a big mistake in thinking he was the only one who needed to process this. He meets Seungkwan’s gaze, and the way they’re wearing matching expressions would make Mingyu laugh, normally. But the knit eyebrows and worried eyes he catches feel a lot like his own, and there’s an urge like breathing that overtakes him. Seungkwan still looks a little short of breath, so:

“Minghao,” Mingyu says quietly. “You’re the only thing that makes this work. Without you, I—” Mingyu’s eyes flick over Seungkwan, looking hopeless like the moon for Minghao, “—without you, we don’t want this.”

He worries briefly that he overstepped, but Seungkwan nods vigorously, swallowing and trying clearly, futilely, to shake the stars out of his eyes.

And Mingyu is struck, train careening around the bend and sending him flying off his feet, by his conviction that no matter how difficult this might be at first, this will all be worth the trouble. He’s not afraid to lose his husband, and he certainly isn’t afraid that he’ll shake off Boo Seungkwan. And he’s not worried that neither of them want this; it’s plain on their faces that they think they want it too much. The realization hits him, and Mingyu knows more than ever what it is that _he_ wants. And he hopes it’s enough.

His decision settles over his shoulders, and his voice is quiet, but sure. “I want this. Both of you. All of us. I think this is something real and rare and special and I want to _try._ Please, if you want this, can we try?”

They both look at him, then, see the steel and diamond of resolve and unshed tears in his eyes, and it’s like they all take a breath.

“Ah, Minggoo,” Seungkwan says, pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek.

Minghao laughs a little, breathlessly, bashfully. “Leave it to you to make something like this work, Mingyu.”

Mingyu tries not to look too pleased but probably fails, if the way Seungkwan rolls his eyes and gets a hand on his collar is any indication. He tugs him down with a quick jerk, brushing their noses together in a sweet, private movement that makes Mingyu want to ask Jihoon how to put into words just how this makes him feel.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Seungkwan announces quietly.

And so he does.

Seungkwan is kissing him, and it’s nothing like the desperate, ferocious thing Mingyu imagined, it’s soft and tentative and perfect, lips warm from kissing his husband moments before. Their mouths take a few hesitant moments before moving and slotting together. Mingyu can feel Seungkwan’s arms tense and untense where he’s gripping at Mingyu’s lapel like he wants him impossibly closer, but has leverage to push him away when it gets too much. Mingyu half-expects Seungkwan to do it, to pull away and tell him to forget it, but instead he presses delicately against Mingyu’s bottom lip, the corner of his mouth, the plush of his pout, pulls him nearer like he _needs_ it.

Mingyu feels the same.

His hands find the small of Seungkwan’s back, holding him tight and losing himself in the pretty way Seungkwan sighs quietly every time they part, before they press together again. Listening for the hitch in the back of his throat when Mingyu’s fingers trace swooping floral patterns against the slope of his back, a mirror of his bad behavior those few hours ago, this time innocent and exploratory and _theirs,_ all three of theirs.

But breathlessness, like light, is only beautiful for the presence of its opposite, and Mingyu finally pulls away to take a deep breath, to look at the golden-apple complexion shining on Seungkwan’s face, and is delighted to find that he’s smiling.

“Yeah?” Mingyu asks, brain a little syrupy-slow.

Seungkwan laughs, and the sound, paired with his smile, makes Mingyu reach out blindly for Minghao’s hand. Seungkwan is looking up at him with this unfathomably kind expression, and Mingyu’s fingers thread with Minghao’s.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Seungkwan smiles.

Minghao sighs, and it sounds terrifically pleased. Mingyu leans over and kisses him, their hands holding fast to each other’s, and finally Mingyu feels the tightness inside him unravel, a weight melting away, a flint spark catching into the soft warm wax melt of a candle.

When Mingyu pulls back from Minghao, Seungkwan leans in close again, sweet mouth a breath from Mingyu’s. “Is dessert still on the table?” he asks, lips brushing against Mingyu’s, and Minghao lets out a peal of a giggle that makes the two of them laugh, too.

“Ugh, this is going to be so annoying,” Mingyu gripes sarcastically before catching a glimpse of Minghao and Seungkwan’s fingers brushing tentatively between their bodies. It’s like his whole body softens in response. 

And despite his myriad complaints, he knows this will be well worth it.

  
•  
  


They didn’t mean to move so quickly after dessert.

But there is something about Seungkwan’s shoes at the door, lined up so neatly next to Minghao’s and Mingyu’s, that makes something inside Mingyu feel a little floaty, like his imagination is moving without his input, like a mirage is materializing before his eyes.

“I know,” Minghao breathes over his shoulder like he can read Mingyu’s mind, chin resting on Mingyu’s shoulder and hands sliding around Mingyu’s waist to rest on his stomach over his belt.

“Isn’t it strange?” Mingyu asks quietly.

“No,” Minghao says, and Mingyu can tell there’s a smile in it. “All your fights end up tidy.”

He drops a kiss on Mingyu’s neck, then another, and another, and soon Mingyu finds himself backed up against the wall next to the bathroom, Minghao nipping at the skin below his ear and worrying at it with his teeth. Whenever Mingyu is done with a long shoot, Minghao leaves marks wherever he can, pretty and possessive, and this is no different.

Well, this is a little different, Mingyu hopes, as his head knocks back against the wall, missing the corner of one of the canvases on the wall by a hand’s width.

“Should I—” Seungkwan half-laughs, his tidy exit from the bathroom interrupted by Mingyu fisting his hand in Seungkwan’s beautiful, probably expensive sweater.

“Don’t you dare,” he says. Mingyu pulls Seungkwan in, kissing him the way he thought their first would be, desperate and clawing; sliding together, hungry. Minghao’s hands are still around his waist, tugging at his shirt, his belt, and— “Bedroom?” Mingyu gasps.

“We have an unopened packet of toothbrushes,” Minghao says to Seungkwan hopefully. God, Mingyu’s in love.

“Well, in that case,” murmurs Seungkwan, that real smile fighting its way onto his face again. _God,_ Mingyu is in love.

They herd Seungkwan into the bedroom, and Mingyu could laugh with the breakneck speed of it, all but skipping. He feels giddy, lovedrunk, falling into bed and letting Minghao make quick work of his clothes with his beautiful, practiced hands. Minghao undresses himself, kicking his self-tailored pants to the floor, and Mingyu reaches for Seungkwan, sliding his hands up those hips, fingers tugging at the hem of that sweater.

“God, you’re so soft,” Mingyu says, and trails his fingers up Seungkwan’s sides, following blue as Seungkwan tugs the sweater over his head carefully.

“Yah,” Seungkwan admonishes with a blush, “Go wait over there.”

So he does, taking the opportunity to kiss his husband. Minghao kisses with thinly veiled excitement, which thrills Mingyu. He can’t keep his hands still. Minghao lets out a little noise, something soft like a sigh, and Mingyu turns to see Seungkwan climbing tentatively into bed, kneeing closer to them.

Frankly, Seungkwan looks a little overwhelmed with decision, gaze hungry, raking over where Mingyu and Minghao are bare and tangled together, lube and condoms laid hopefully atop the sheets, all looking right back at Seungkwan.

“We can take care of you,” offers Minghao, not entirely selflessly, if the broad hand he slides up Seungkwan’s flank is any indication.

“I can tell you what I’ve thought about,” murmurs Mingyu. And he could go on for some time: being held down by Seungkwan while Minghao fucks into him, his husband whispering in his ear while Seungkwan works him over, being blindfolded and not knowing who is where… He must get a faraway look envisioning the possibilities, because Minghao scratches at the back of Mingyu’s neck and makes a noise to bring him back to right now, where Minghao and Seungkwan are looking at him, sweet and starving. “Sorry.”

That, at least, makes Seungkwan laugh. “I’ll take responsibility for that,” he says with a wolfish grin and an unabashed glimmer in his eye directed at Mingyu that has Mingyu chewing on his lower lip.

“The last… ten times we’ve had sex I think you’ve been involved in some way, so we can do whatever you want,” Minghao confesses, hand still spanning the back of Seungkwan’s thigh. (Mingyu can see where Minghao’s fingers sink into the plush skin, and tries not to want so much to press his mouth against where they meet.) Seungkwan groans, scrubbing a hand over his face and looking overwhelmed again. 

After a deep breath, Seungkwan steels himself with resolve and lets a smile melt over his face, shy and wanting in equal measure. “Lost time to make up for, then.”

He leans forward, letting Minghao’s hand slide up to get a handful of his ass as he kisses him, slow and deep, trailing kisses down Minghao’s jaw and over to his earlobe. Seungkwan whispers something into Minghao’s ear that tightens his grip on Seungkwan’s thigh and ass and makes him let out a long, shaky exhale. “Yeah,” Minghao says, nodding eagerly, slowly turning a shade of pink like the sunrise.

It steals the breath from Mingyu’s lungs, watching Seungkwan move for the lube and hand it to Minghao, whose wet fingers slip between his own thighs to reach back and start to work himself open.

“Shit,” Mingyu breathes, watching rapturously as Minghao’s lip catches in his mouth, the line of his throat exposed when he starts to move against his hand, watching Seungkwan take himself in hand, too, hypnotic.

Seungkwan turns to Mingyu, then, murmurs, “Is this okay?” 

And there’s something sweet in his face, all that vulnerability underneath his bravado. “Yes, yeah,” Mingyu says, and reaches for Seungkwan’s face, thumb grazing over his cheekbone. “I want to watch you.”

“Okay,” Seungkwan says, almost shy with it.

Mingyu doesn’t know where to look, Minghao’s head tossed back as he stifles little moans into his pillow, his hips pushing down and his wrist working up, or Seungkwan’s hand sliding up Minghao’s stomach, ghosting over his nipples and eliciting a choked-sounding gasp from Minghao. It’s pretty, something melted-hot bubbling inside Mingyu, and he reaches over to get a hand on Seungkwan while his are occupied. Selfless, is what it is. (Selfish, Mingyu wants to be, wants them both in his hands, around him, surrounding him.)

The angle isn’t ideal for a handjob, but Seungkwan pitches forward when Mingyu wets his palm with lube to ease the slide. Seungkwan is mostly hard already, and makes shaky little noises, aborted, frustrated things, when Mingyu slides his hand along him, thumb tracing the vein, the head. He wants to get his mouth on him.

“I want to suck you off,” Mingyu says, and it sounds a little whiny, a little petulant, like he isn’t getting his way, when the opposite couldn’t be more true. He wants it all, he wants _everything._ Minghao calls him greedy in bed, sometimes, fondness dripping from every syllable, and Mingyu thinks he’s starting to see what he means.

Both Minghao and Seungkwan groan. Seungkwan swallows. “Baby, if you do that, this will be over, and I have waited too long to just come in your mouth.”

There are a lot of assumptions there. The pet name goes right to Mingyu’s dick. He wants Seungkwan to call him whatever he likes, and if “baby” is it, then he can live with that. It’s possible he can’t, actually, because he is impossibly hard already. He moves for a sloppy kiss, trailing his mouth hotly over Seungkwan’s jaw, chest pressed to his back so he can look down at Minghao, too, under Seungkwan’s arms.

“His mouth is not a terrible place to come. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” Minghao manages, punctuated with a sigh as he pulls his hand out. His slick-tacky hand grips Mingyu’s arm, steadying himself as he says, “I’m ready, I’m good, okay.”

“Next time,” Seungkwan says to Mingyu with an eyeroll. The effect is perfect with the syrupy smile he can’t seem to shake off.

Mingyu does him the favor of tearing open the condom, thankful he and Minghao just bought a box when they needed a few for the trailer thing. They rarely use them at home, but sometimes the occasion calls for it. He recalls Minghao turning a little red when he went for the bigger box, wonders now if he pictured _this_ at the end of the tunnel. If so, he needs to talk to someone about manifesting wishes and the psychic arts, he thinks, scooting back so he can roll the condom onto Seungkwan.

Seungkwan’s small hands roam Minghao’s lean body, Minghao rolling back his hips a little to let Seungkwan settle between them and slick himself up. Mingyu thinks he’s doing a pretty good job at discreetly jerking himself off at the sight, until—

“Minggoo-yah. That’s our job,” Seungkwan says, this side of a growl, and Mingyu yanks his hand off himself with a surprised whimper, the casual address and the tone of voice going right through him.

“He can come a few times if you let him,” Minghao says to Seungkwan, sweetly, too casually for what’s in progress, and it’s an unfamiliar spark of flint to hear Minghao instruct Seungkwan how to touch him, tell him how his body will respond, how Mingyu will react.

Seungkwan’s gaze lands hot and heavy on Mingyu, then, even as his hands explore Minghao’s body, even as he’s lining himself up, and Mingyu can feel what he’s going to ask before he asks it. “Can you wait for me? Do you want me to fuck you too?”

Mingyu groans, for several reasons. “It’s going to give you a big head if I say yes.”

“I already have one, because of this,” Seungkwan purrs, reaching over with his free hand and running a soft finger up the length of Mingyu’s erection, fingertip smearing precome messily over him.

It is readily apparent that all of this does not bode well for Mingyu, in the best possible way.

“Fine, fine, yes, Seungkwan, please,” Mingyu whines, and Seungkwan smiles, bright and soft like the sun coming out of the fog, and sinks into Minghao.

They groan, Minghao clutching at Seungkwan’s shoulders. It’s been a while since Mingyu’s done this with Minghao, fingered him open, taken him apart like this, and he suddenly can’t remember why. Watching his face scrunch tight, seeing the two of them together in this heavy-breathed tableau, is a lot.

“You’re okay, come on,” Minghao exhales, running a hand through Seungkwan’s hair, and they’re off.

It’s burning through Mingyu, Seungkwan’s hands on Minghao’s waist, his slow and even strokes seeming to melt through Minghao. Seungkwan leans in close, presses a kiss to the corner of Minghao’s lips, then sets a pace like magma, coaxing a low moan from Minghao.

Seungkwan fucks like he knows what he’s doing, hips rolling and hands roaming, and Mingyu _wants,_ watches Minghao’s long limbs wrap around Seungkwan’s, soft in two different ways, pearl meet moonlight, silver and platinum.

“You can’t imagine how many times I’ve gotten off thinking about you fucking in Mingyu’s trailer,” Seungkwan says shakily, his rhythm starting to pick up, Minghao breathing harder as he does. “Every time I looked at it I had to remember it! I was so mad at you,” he mutters, his next thrust a little deeper, and Mingyu laughs. The sound mingles with Minghao’s whine.

“That was kind of the point,” Mingyu says, and leans in to kiss him, one hand on Minghao’s hip.

Minghao’s not much of a talker, just quiet _mores_ and _yeses,_ but his keens are getting louder and louder as Seungkwan’s hips grind in, and he says, “Yeah, just like that, please.”

Seungkwan pulls him closer by the hips, and Minghao _moans,_ hand flying out to grab for Mingyu’s head—face—something. Mingyu moves in close, lets Minghao’s hand wind broad into his hair and pull him in for a deep kiss, his loud tremulous moan vibrating through Mingyu’s mouth. It pitches up, and Minghao’s hand tightens, and he’s coming, shuddering and whining and beautiful between Seungkwan and Mingyu.

They lean back, letting Minghao shake his hair out of his face, breathing slow and purposeful. His mindful breathing, which makes Mingyu grin.

“Okay, jagi?” he asks.

“Holy shit,” Minghao laughs, and Seungkwan’s knotted eyebrows smooth out as he pulls out and kisses Minghao, lingering and sweet. Seungkwan looks pleased, and also still very hard. “You’re not gonna make it, bǎobèi, I’m sorry.”

Indignant, Mingyu huffs, even as Seungkwan laughs, loud and ugly. “How about we stop making assumptions about how much dick I can take and someone touch me, please,” he complains.

“Awful romantic atmosphere,” Seungkwan jokes, stripping off the old condom and putting on a new one. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but Mingyu is aflame, and Seungkwan’s safe sexual practices are definitely not helping.

Minghao takes the opportunity when Seungkwan is away to stretch out a little, humming with satisfaction. “You want me to prep you, Mingyu?”

“Yeah,” he nods.

He turns onto all fours so Minghao can slide his hand over the arch of his back and get fingers inside him, one after the other. It’s wetter than Minghao usually makes it, which feels dirty, especially when Seungkwan mutters, “Jesus,” from behind him, next to Minghao. 

His soft hands smooth over Mingyu’s ass, holding him apart for Minghao, probably watching Minghao’s gorgeous fingers disappear inside him, brushing over his prostate, and Mingyu’s knees wobble, his arms giving way, and his face presses into the bed. This position may not have been his smartest idea, he considers, as he’s already shaking and this has barely started for him.

“Now, now, now, now,” Mingyu begs, embarrassment out the door.

“You’re not making this easy,” Seungkwan says tightly, and the head of his cock nudges against Mingyu’s hole, and _oh_ God.

“Oh, I’m _so_ sorry,” Mingyu says, hoping to laugh through the joke, but it sounds impatient and wrecked. Jesus.

Minghao shuffles up the bed, sitting up by the pillows, and Mingyu rests his face in his lap, looking up at him. “I love you,” Minghao smiles, bending forward and pressing a kiss onto his forehead.

When Seungkwan finally pushes into him, Mingyu gasps, the previous tremble of anticipation shuddering out into a graphic moan, loud and desperate. He tries not to push his hips back to get Seungkwan _all the way inside already, please, please, please—_

“Fuck,” Seungkwan hisses from behind, and Mingyu’s toes curl when he sinks all the way in, hips coming to rest against Mingyu.

Up close, Minghao has a hand on Mingyu’s face, touching and caressing his overheated skin, pressing kisses to his hairline as Mingyu’s face tightens and he swallows back whimpers. “You sound so good for us, bǎobèi.”

“Wanna hear you loud for us, okay?” Seungkwan says, and pulls back out, torturously slow. 

Mingyu can only let his mind repeat _for us, for us,_ his mouth open and face pressed against Minghao’s thigh where his head rests in his lap, crying out high-pitched and needy when Seungkwan fists the back of his hair and fucks back in, deep and hard. He grinds against Mingyu when his hips meet Mingyu’s ass, and Mingyu wants so badly to look at Minghao’s face, wants to gaze up and watch the pride and lust on his husband’s face as he’s good for them, so good for them, but he can’t, the desperate feeling in his stomach reaching a rolling boil.

The slow, dirty way Seungkwan is fucking Mingyu is melting him from the inside out, better than he hoped it would be, better even than the way Minghao would whisper it into his ear so he could imagine it. He wants Seungkwan and Minghao to swallow him whole, to share him between them like the spaghetti in _Lady and the Tramp,_ messy and loving and tender and together.

Mingyu can’t help the way he’s rolling his hips back to grind up against Seungkwan, to take him deeper, more, _God, more, please,_ back arched as he whines, wet and openmouthed and muffled in the crease of Minghao’s thigh. 

Minghao is pushing Mingyu’s hair, damp with sweat, off his face so he can kiss him, grounding and sweet, which is a lot in contrast with the sweat-sticky, humid press of Seungkwan’s chest against his back, filth sweet as honey — _so hot, hyung, fuck, you’re so gorgeous, want you so bad, Mingyu-hyung, please_ — being muttered into his ear.

They’re talkative now, because of course they are, now that Mingyu is vibrating out of his skin desperate.

“Is he real?” Seungkwan says, louder now, and Mingyu can’t answer, which is for the better, because it wasn’t directed at him. 

Minghao laughs, a little breathless. “I know. He’s so good, huh?”

And then it’s quiet but for the gross, messy sound of Seungkwan fucking into Mingyu, slow and steady. This hungry, desperate fire licks through Mingyu’s body at the sound, setting him so ablaze that it almost feels calming. Fire is cleansing, he’s heard. 

Mingyu’s little noises quieten against Minghao’s skin, and when he raises his head, he sees Minghao leaning in to kiss Seungkwan, one hand on Mingyu’s face and the other on Seungkwan’s. “Hey,” Mingyu manages to whine petulantly, craning his neck up as though he could reach their lips if he just tried hard enough.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Seungkwan says, and it’s laced with a laugh, voice dripping not with condescension as usual but with fondness, which is frankly a lot for Mingyu to handle, even as Seungkwan slows his pace. “Are you feeling neglected?”

If it were possible, Mingyu would flush, but he suspects his skin is likely already a fluorescent coral. “I just wanna be kissed, too,” he mutters.

Minghao coos, and Seungkwan leans back, slides delicate fingertips up and down Mingyu’s spine. It’s soft, and gentle, and makes Mingyu shiver. He’s trying to come to grips with how _good_ this is, how right it feels, how much he wants this, has been wanting it, and he screws his eyes shut, taking a deep, steadying breath.

“Come here, then,” Seungkwan says, and pulls out slowly to let Mingyu shuffle onto his knees, Minghao at his chest and Seungkwan at his back. Very quickly Mingyu finds himself sandwiched between them, and just as suddenly realizes just how bad an idea this was.

Seungkwan uses a hand to nudge at the backs of Mingyu’s thighs, palm hot against his skin. Mingyu pushes up, and then he’s sinking back down onto Seungkwan, his thighs nestled over Seungkwan’s, and — “Oh, fuck, Seungkwan!” He’s shaking, and his cries are swallowed in a kiss, Minghao pushing flush against him, collarbone to collarbone.

Minghao’s hands find Mingyu’s hips, and slowly start to guide him back and forth, rocking him onto Seungkwan’s cock, relieving Mingyu of all control. 

This is going to be over unbearably quickly, and Mingyu finds he doesn’t mind, melting into the feeling of Minghao’s hands and Seungkwan’s hands and Minghao kissing him and Seungkwan inside him and good _God,_ Mingyu is dangerously close to coming.

“So pretty,” Seungkwan murmurs into Mingyu’s ear, panted prayer. “You feel so good.”

Mingyu tilts his head back, curled backward over Seungkwan’s chest, and he must look completely ruined, because Seungkwan’s kiss is messy, heavy, more breath than lips. Mingyu lets it anchor him as his knees try to press together.

One of Seungkwan’s hands finds Minghao’s at Mingyu’s hip, their fingers interlocked as Minghao moves him. Mingyu feels surrounded. Mingyu feels wanted. Mingyu feels…

“Seungkwanie, Hao, please, _please,”_ Mingyu whines, loud and desperate, so close, needing _something._ Seungkwan presses a kiss to his neck, and Minghao captures his lips, wrapping one hand around his weeping cock, and no sooner does he stroke him, base to tip, than Mingyu is coming with a broken shout and shaking between them. It hits him hard, and his hands fly out, vice grip on Seungkwan’s thigh and Minghao’s neck. 

“Fuck, fuck, Mingyu, Minghao, shit,” Seungkwan moans into the nape of Mingyu’s neck, biting at it as he tips over too.

Mingyu can’t catch his breath, taking shuddering inhales as he collapses forward, bent awkwardly like his first pilates class.

“You’re so beautiful,” Minghao says quietly, reverently, one hand combing through Mingyu’s hair, the other elsewhere. Elsewhere turns out to be Seungkwan’s face, if the soft noise of a kiss is any indication.

“You’re so sentimental,” Mingyu says, muffled into the sheets.

Minghao snorts and pinches at Mingyu’s tummy. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Seungkwan laughs, guiding Mingyu to tip over onto his side so he can pull out and stand up to head into the en suite, retrieving a washcloth and tossing out the condoms. “You’re both like this, it’s cute,” he calls over the sound of the tap running.

When Minghao and Mingyu meet eyes, then, it’s blushing and smiling. Seungkwan pads back in, gentle sticky-feet sounds on the hardwood, and wipes them all down, laughing when Mingyu yelps as his hand brushes over his hole again.

“Just checking,” Seungkwan snickers.

Mingyu huffs, scooting up the bed into Minghao’s protective arms. “Checking what! Yes, you fucked the life out of me, is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Kind of,” grins Seungkwan.

“You are way too smug right now,” Mingyu mutters, but he still feels boneless and sated, so he can’t convince himself to put any heat behind it.

“I wanna do that every day for the rest of my life,” Minghao says serenely, tugging Seungkwan by the hand to cuddle at his other side too.

Mingyu is inclined to agree. A comfortable silence lingers, and after a long while Mingyu thinks he’s the only one still awake, wriggling out from under Minghao’s arm to put on some pajamas.

“Nice ass,” Seungkwan whispers from the bed, and Mingyu practically jumps out of his skin.

Minghao laughs quietly, eyes still shut. “That’s what I always say. Where are you going, Mingyu?”

“Pajamas,” Mingyu yawns. He’s a little sore, deliciously achy, and takes the nice cotton set out of the drawer. For comfort.

“I didn’t bring any other clothes,” Seungkwan says quietly. The _I didn’t expect to stay_ remains unspoken, and Mingyu wants to chase it out with a broom, set traps so it never comes back. He lets his husband speak for himself most of the time, but feels comfortable speaking for Minghao if he says they want Seungkwan to stay.

“You are not sleeping in a cashmere sweater,” Minghao deadpans, masking what Mingyu knows is great alarm.

Seungkwan’s eyes are wide as he nods with relief, like he’s glad _someone_ has some sense. “That’s for damn sure.”

There’s something sweet about the shy way Seungkwan changes into a spare set of Mingyu’s matching pajamas way in the back of the walk-in closet, and after Mingyu brushes his teeth and returns to bed he finds that he can’t take his eyes off the small fingers patting in night moisturizer next to Minghao at the vanity, Minghao pushing his fringe back for him so cream doesn’t get in Seungkwan’s hair.

“Come to bed,” Mingyu calls quietly, smoothing out the covers. Seungkwan and Minghao look at each other in the reflection of the mirror, and then they do.

•

There are few things Mingyu relishes more than being told his husband is gorgeous. He knows, but it sure is something to be reminded, especially like this.

“Minghao,” he murmurs, kissing at Minghao’s temple and brushing his hair off his face. His eyelashes flutter, and Mingyu drops another kiss on his nose, then his lips. “Are you up, jagi?”

Making a soft noise of assent, Minghao stretches out like a cat in their bed, soft comforter slipping off his bare shoulders. He’s all rumpled and warm, and Mingyu was too eager to change out of his turtleneck and suit after their press event finished, even though Seungkwan ditched his jacket as soon as he could. 

(Despite how rare and exciting a second-season order with the original cast is for any drama, for whatever reason, Mingyu and Seungkwan elected not to attend the afterparty.)

Minghao does his best but is sometimes too tired to wait up. It’s nice to come home and see him like this, though, soft and disheveled and shirtless and glowing in lamplight just for them.

“It’s like the first time every time I see it,” Seungkwan mutters, grip tightening on Mingyu’s wrist. Mingyu slides his hand up to thread his fingers through Seungkwan’s, his delicate fingers slotted perfectly between his own.

God, he’s right, though; Mingyu will never get tired of the heavy-lidded way Minghao rakes his eyes over them as he rouses fully, always hungry as soon as he wakes up.

Minghao rubs his eyes with the meat of his palm. “Oh, Seungkwanie, don’t hold out on me,” Minghao smiles, closing his eyes to receive a slow, deep kiss from Seungkwan, tugging him down into the ocean of sheets as soon as he leans in closer. Mingyu never gets tired of that, either.

Mingyu is glad he took off his shoes the second he got home, because he is suddenly very eager to make quick work of his clothes and tumble into bed.

“Hurry up, Mingyu,” Seungkwan teases, and Minghao grins up at him, too. Their eyes are so bright, and there’s a warmth spreading through Mingyu like the first day of summer. All their media money isn’t nearly as priceless as this.

Mingyu thinks, _This is what love feels like._

**Author's Note:**

> idol cameos: jiwoo (chuu) from loona, chaeyoung and tzuyu from twice, nagyung from fromis_9
> 
> thank you for reading!
> 
> find me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/pixiepowerao3) and [curiouscat](http://www.curiouscat.me/pixiepower/)!


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